Africa

Africa

(Impossible Love)

I've never been

the one aiming at

Africa, her skin aged

                          waiting

too long too

much skies

above us tundras, horses

galloping their white

Napoleon desire, unable to

conquer love

letter-sweet

kisses brewing, somewhere

as a disease

spreading its odor

silently, between

lips aching

in pain, for

uncertain parallels & meridians

turning the tissues

within

her hands, truly

a compass

following the eternal movement

of seabirds -

north & south

back & forth

- the stamina

of generations

rising as a voice

                       deep

of identity

I never woke up inside

Africa;

a faulty azimuth

put me

steering into another

continent

until today's

memories broke up

and I realized

Africa

was just

the name of this

poem.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho