Angela

This is the poem referred to in my earlier post below.  I began to write it ten years ago, more or less, in Brazil, and it was finally published last autumn:

To the east the dawn is breaking                                                                                           

while you and your children sleep on.                                                                                   

It is cool in the house just now,                                                                                             

and that old loose shutter sways gently in the morning breeze.                                            

Soon the rains will come.

Stirred from your slumber by the barking dogs                                                                     

you listen to your children, their little sleeping sounds.                                                        

How it came to be like this                                                                                                    

is still strange to you: the years since he left                                                                          

when the factory closed,                                                                                            

promising to send money, to send word,                                                                   

promising one day, soon, things would be good again.

Now the morning sun has found its way in,                                                              

igniting as it always does the specks of dancing dust,                                                          

as you hear the children waking,  trading playful blows.

You smile, and light the candle by the crucifix.

                                                                       

Of course, there was no word,                                                                                               

and you had no forwarding address. By now he could be anywhere                                               

or nowhere.  While for you there is today’s work to be done,                                              

your few hours' cleaning, and the bottles, cans you find                                          

and sort, and trade; alone, how could there be anything but struggle?                                 

Always, times are hard,

but there will be soup today at the mission.

And this whole favela, “Anglo” they call it, with its dust and open drains,                         

with its dirt yards and carts and rubbish piles,                                                                      

is your story told over and over,

translated into many lives,                                                     

your struggle shared, repeated through the heat of the day                                                  

and the night's silent hours; yet thank God that in this place                                    

with children and with friends around he gives once more

the dawn of a new day,                                 

and there will be songs to sing, and still somehow

a hope restored, the sun rekindling faith                                                       

that will not die.