Poetry
Life is a disconcerting madness
Translated from Portuguese. Read the original →
Paulo MuhongoPoem · 4 stanzas · 7 lines
We can travel the world, our country, our city, and find no one along the way.
And then, exhausted from this long odyssey that is life, we desire nothing more than to return home and find our lot, as Charles Aznavour sang.
Walking down the small Massillon street in Le Havre, our gaze rests on a corner, where a very singular person appears.
As we approach, the light gradually reveals her face, and we hear her sweet and gentle voice in the distance, she asks:
“Is there a problem, sir?”
A whirlwind of sensations then envelops us, resembling those we experience upon returning home after a long journey through a desert, and we surrender to the comfort of the bed, whispering:
“Finally, I’m home.”
