Comfortable in the dark waste
of twisted roots,
life broke the hardpan
forcing me to surface.
The morning light blinded,
a deafening sound of birds.
What to do in this madhouse
of awakening?
No return to the labyrinth,
no way down through the asphalt.
Nothing left but plum tree blossoms,
and the sounds of children.
Perhaps I’ve gone mad,
beyond all reason,
yet I open like dirt
to break out with flowers
trembling in spring glory.
Reading of “Trembling in Spring Glory” with music by Seu Jorge.