America: a Poem (trabalho criativo de Sara Santos)

I see the great men and women of my generation,

Going to and fro, unnoticed, forgotten, invisible in a mass of bodies.

I know them, and you know them.

But we do not know them,

Because they are as diverse as the greenery around us,

And as plentiful as the salt in the ocean,

And as melodic and unique as the song of a swan which says its final goodbye to a bodily existence.

I see them.

They pass by me on the street,

Run into me in the market and grocery store,

Their heads wave from the window of the omnibus, as it sets off to another part of town;

Or maybe out of town, all the way to the edge of this vast bit of earth which we inhabit.

I see them.

And I pass by them, and run into them, and my head waves back.

There goes my sister with her untamed wild mass of brown curls, which so beautifully suits her worried looks;

And over there is my brother, his hair white, his stance frail, his wrinkled face telling a story of a long gone youth;

And down the street is the boy selling newspapers on the pavement, hoping for a meal and bed at the end of the day.

My flesh, my blood, my hopes, my dreams,

All rest with them, with the possibility of their own hopes and dreams.

All go unnoticed, intertwined in an undistinguishable crowd, going back and forth,

And then back, and then forth again.

Oh, I see her…

There goes the landlady, who so kindly greets me good morning everyday.

And crossing the lane is my dear old friend, who after ten years still wears the same hat as when he was a boy (he must not have grown much, for it still fits his dark head).

I now stop to buy some apples, healthful fruit which feels me with satisfaction (they come from my neighbour’s orchard, the one with the limp, who bravely fought for his side of the country).

I recognize the little girl selling them; it is my neighbour’s niece: wide awake she dreams of princesses and heroes, half knowing the heroin she herself is,

For she is the flesh, blood, hopes, dreams, of our people.

And then, I see him.

Of all, he is the most remarkable.

Not because his skin is darker than most (for it is the heart and its interior colour which will decide his fate),

But because his feet drag through the dirt, unprotected, and his wrists bleed, crusts peeling off, from the wretched shackles of his condition.

His glossy black skin like the stretched wings of a raven, his eyes two stars gleaming bright in a dark sky.

And yet, there he goes:

His beautiful figure crushed under the weight of oppression and injustice.

The little girl does not know; she only dreams, and in dreaming she does not see what surrounds her.

Many do not see what surrounds them.

But I do.

My eyes are open,

My heart receptive,

And my mind awake.

I stand on the highest mountain and my eyes apprehend all that stands before me, after me, to my left and to my right, above my head and below my feet.

My feet tread the hard, dried, lifeless desert ground.

It scrapes my soles and its heat burns my throat.

My hands stroke sweet flowers in the garden and my nose breathes in their colourful scents.

My head rests on a pile of green leaves, the touch of spring caressing the nape of my neck,

As my eyes stare out into the deep blue ocean which threatens to swallow me whole (I am not afraid),

Heaps of cerulean, blemished with wide white whales drifting away as the wind blows.

My ears make out great roaring sounds in the distance; I am moved by them.

My legs run for miles, until a tall grey structure stops my movement,

Giant cylinders blowing smoke out into the sky, which is no longer blue but also grey, grey as a woman’s hair, once flowing gold as dawn down her straight back.

From the corner of my eye, I perceive a long metallic serpent creeping closer and closer.

Its large body split into two; or maybe there are two sneaky snakes, connected through parallel strings of hard cold intractable steel.

I look to the horizon; this screeching stark snake seems ceaseless.

I see. I hear. I touch. I smell. I taste. I feel.

All around me and everyone around me:

So vast, so rich, so diverse, so beautiful, strong, active!

A never-ending adventure of blues, oranges, greens, reds, browns, yellows, greys, crimsons, blacks and whites.

Of highs and lows, deserts and rich countries, green mounds and grey buildings, machines and living creatures.

I turn my back on them

And concentrate yet again, not on the geography of the place, but on the people who live here, who have given life and blood and tears to create the greatest, most supreme country of them all:

America!

And I see the Americans!

All day and everyday, the same routine unfolds before my eyes.

And everyday I see my sister and my brother and the newspaper boy, my landlady and my neighbour, his niece and the chained black man.

I see them, the bodies and the hearts,

Filled with the joy of hope, or the sadness of experience,

The American Dream, which will come true for some and for many forever remain a reverie.

I see them.

Everyday.

And I ask, who comes forth with his pen to write this great people?

The people of country and city, of work and play, of honesty and felony, of body and soul…so much soul in such fleshly ephemeral bodies…

I ask, who comes forth and sings this vast and noble people?

A people of heroes who are no heroes of the past, but of a present which is still in the making.

Who has the courage to stand up on a great mound of rock and scream to all the winds, seas and earths, all the countries, nations and men:

This is my people!

I AM AMERICAN!

I AM AMERICAN!

The great American people is that which I sing!

The people which bears no barriers, but extends itself beyond earth and ocean,

And which raises itself up, and will raise every nation up,

Through an undying ethos and relentless effort.

I may be wrong, I may be right, I may be both, I may be none.

So long as my eyes can see, my lungs can breathe, my mouth can speak and my hand can write, I will be the grand translator of my people,

The American people.

For they too have a voice and a story to tell.

They will no longer go unnoticed and invisible.

 Look for me and you will find them.

With pen and paper, look for me and you will find us both

In the Grand Canyon at sundown.

Picture: All American Blonde, de Sandy Schimmel