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PRAISE
I find my peace descending through the notebook
towards a blank page
besieged by noise and by emptiness, my words
hold themselves in reserve for You, for the radiance of morning,
for the voice that leads me along the tortuous thread
of time
in my fingers I feel the rigor of water, the labor
of soap, Your joy
like grasses greening in the earth, the words flow:
I know men will come with their many blades,
they will come with the fire of their loveless hearts
and that small infinite light may not endure
beyond half a season
but it does not matter.
there was in my wrists the tremor, the miracle
repeated from the days of the beginning
and I know that every poem is born for You, all the green
of humble, useless things
and I know that I am fortunate, because You taught me so
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Poem by João Ricardo Lopes | Translated by Marcus Margrave (2026)
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