A process in the weather of the heart

A weather in the quarter of the veins

promessas com sabor a menta
a escorrerem-me da boca

amanhã eu vou, apanho o metro e vou
prometo-me que sim
à noite

A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead





Dylan Thomas
A process in the weather of the heart (excertos)
Imagem de Katia Chausheva