É triste viver na

The Spring, a flutter in the gardens, bloom—life;
amidst the two extremes of acrid Summer, and Winter forlorn,
I begin to write another half-poem about seasons, 
to express my void, to bring it closer to the becoming that it shall never become.
Heavy downpour, beyond my feet, in the opposite terrain,
of Carlos Jobim—a particular way to strum the guitar, 
a pattern of intersecting seconds and thirds—
the third never coming full, the second coming on the last quarter, 
for it to loop again—a pure joy of the soul,
through heartache, and through the heavy downpour.

Corcovado—a foreign stone placed on top, the shape of a cross, 
to be climbed up to, become the blessing in the palm of God.
The Bossa being played on a guitar, over across in the other hill by the shore,
a generational score passed, from Gilberto to Jobim, 
to be sung in rhythms progressively getting vague—
flown into the slightest current of the wind—Passarim, 
or the low, mellow strings: a quartet and no more;
to sing the song again, not of Ipanema, but of the stone-hauled mountain.

The rain, the garden, it is, water as it trickles down the cliff, 
The window, the eye up close, it is, roof that leaks, 
beyond his feet, over in the murky side of the pond.
Here everything is pleasant, only the occasional rain, and butterflies, 
and flowers, and broadly-lit days which bleed into the night, 
and a distinct scent of nocturnal shrubs and trees prevails.

Here everything is pleasant, yet litters of people on the road;
and a long-distant couple that lives by the southern shore.
We’d often visit them when I was young, the lights were dimly lit, 
even at night, and often at occasions where I was the only child around;
running across the room, into people that had gloom plague their face.
The sand was still plenty on the upper vessel then, 
and I didn’t pull it above the ground, and carry it around.
One day they decided to not bring me to funerals anymore; 
do away with them at once perhaps,
kill and ignite all those that had succumbed to the plague,
and to deviance, gluttony, and departed from the word of the Saints.

A man kept pulling on all ropes that’d gotten shredded into yarns, 
mustering all he had to keep together the barn; 
not succumb in crisis that had persisted two decades;
not giving in the usual desire of man when succession is lost:
of equipping the hide to abuse the wife,
or raising his voice anymore—
growing deaf, growing old.
The woman barely clung to life, 
monthly checkups, standing hours in line, 
the inability to walk out into the sun, 
the inability to sit on the floor.
This was an oddity that I didn’t miss even as a child, 
exploring the home—rooms left as they were, two decades ago, 
and some that were older, perhaps as memoir, 
of the lesser two that went their separate ways before the funeral, 
settling on a new name—new homes.

The house was stuck in time, an excruciating heatwave
that burnt all vegetation or fruit they’d grow,
then winds that would slice through the derma, 
rip it apart—freeze the blood.
The house had never seen a Spring in bloom I’d come to realise…
Who could I put the blame on?
Who ought to grow close, do away the ambiguous stage—
talk, and prevent the need of a hearing aid, 
and listen more than speak? 
Perhaps do the laundry on the weekend, 
or cook a meal:
massage the feet that’d seen the abuse of cheap-locomotion, 
and exploited labour in premature days of a Swiss-French city;
massage the back that’s devoid of care, and touch
by the heirs—the heirs of the crutch.

Today I’d missed a visit, a routine that’d been for the past-six years,
yet it barely feels strange or induce emotions of regret and guilt.
I have survived without having worked in service,
and perpetual confirmation generates instinct—the biggest foe of man.
And as one of them grows deaf, chances reduce—
impending speech impairment, and implantation of a similar fate of the other.

Spring then diminishes for me as well, 
as my lover promises to show up tomorrow, for 3 years in a row.
Persistent enough to wait, frightened so as not to act.
I suppose I share the inevitability of 10 years with them as well.