A handwritten poem on December 17, 1997, rereading it, I saw that it is very current, nowadays, many times the fights of couples, end in the death of the woman, for what it is said to love her, and some repent, and commit suicide.
Until when, my God, will we have troglodytes, beings who think they own, masters of their wives? You can have a first class study, know the technologies, but you destroy the poetry of Life, love and faith. And pain surrenders to everyone.
Nineties, twentieth century
The refinement of the families
Islands sometimes without God
Defects, social gatherings and your children.
Wives who work outside
They spread the organization of the home,
And, spouses who often
They require a salary, and they offer nothing in return.
And, continuous fights during the day,
The night, the lovers' whip
And the man's ejaculation,
Just the fatigue vent.
And the woman, who opens her legs,
In the chimeras of fantasy
You don't live the poetry of pleasure.
And after the male ecstasy
One to fall asleep without saying thank you.
Nineties, and it doesn't matter professions assumed,
A woman's life is hectic,
Day after day,
Work in and out of the home.
And, the children, educated by television (tv)
They can't discern knowledge.
And, the population is summed up in the height of divorces without solutions.
Emotions are created, and transformed into the psychiatry of life,
And your emotions.
São Paulo, December 17, 1997. Handwritten in one of my notebooks of poetry, and inspirations.
Today, 6/8/2019, transcribed to 2 poetic sites:
Tereza Cristina Gonçalves Mendes Castro
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator
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