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I suffer from cold fits when I hear of money.

Does a poet need money? Does he understand it?

They ask if I want to sell my house, my car,

how many dollars do I want for them.

I rarely remember if they are mine, 

or how much had I paid for them, if so. 

They do not know how impertinent they are. 

Should I value my things, my labor, my time, 

or, by chance, my life?

People cannot understand poet’s measures.

Is it possible they do not know that they are   

the human happiness, 

a plain smile 

and permanent beauty’s ravishment?


E d i l s o n   A f o n s o  F e r r e i r a 

Money, as viewed by a poet




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Issue 78

Variations on Absence

edited by Laura M. Kaminski






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