Holocaust of the trees
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  • Kupahúba has her roots
    She doesn’t go to meet the wind
    it’s the wind that embraces her
    bringing the scent of bacába,
    the fleshy fruit,
    of mangaba, the aromatic pulp,
    of pitanga, of murex shells..
    In the orange-red sky
    silence darkens the light
    Kupahúba sees a river stretch out
    gushing out from the house of the sun.
    Wind brings a shining light
    and black, red-hot smoke
    forces itself among the trees
    leaves burn moving
    in the turmoil of the forest
    between chaos and smoke
    All is fire… trees fall…
    all is ash:
    In this frantic rhythm even the sky shall fall.
    The massacre doesn’t stop:
    Kupahúba waits for the fire, still,
    bound to her roots.
    She feels the fire running through her branches
    her green body shakes and feels pain
    she who soothes pain feels
    fire howling through her trunk
    burning her roots
    and the dead ground of the wasted forest,
    ruins…
    The holocaust of a mass of trees.
    The wind doesn’t bring familiar tunes
    green and blue disturbances
    come back come back, ancient rhythms

    Márcia Theóphilo, 2000
    English version by Riccardo Duranti