“Killer sketches” stir row in Brazil

PEN American Center, the largest branch of the world’s oldest literary and human rights organization, […]

Upon naked skin I write.
Upon the ardent expanse
which covers me
and accompanies me
throughout life’s journeys.

Long time ago I was only a seed
growing up in a far land
thinking I will root there forever.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

From time to time
I journey backwards
It is my way of remembering.