20 phrases by Ana Cristina Cesar to dive into the poet’s world

In love, I took my weapon, my soul, my calm, only you took nothing.

Women and children are the first to give up on sinking ships.

I thought that if I loved again I would forget at least three or four other faces that I loved… however open flank I don’t forget and I love the other faces in you.

I present to you the most discreet woman in the world: the one who has no secrets.

I even wanted to know how to see, and in a round movement like the waves that surrounded me, invisible, to embrace each bit of living matter with my retinas.

I die and remorse in the life that passes. I hear your footsteps. infernal compass. I was born for life. From death I lived, but everything ends. Silence. I died.

I ask here if I’m crazy. Who wants to know. I ask more, if I am sane and even more, if it is me.

For now, there’s still no curtain, rug, indirect light softening the night, painting on the walls… And he and the others see me. Who chose.

Let’s do one thing: write sweet and sour letters… Lines crossing: women enjoy provocation by savoring the privilege.

What am I doing here in the countryside declaiming long and heartfelt verses by the meters?

I too go out in absentia and look for a synthesis in the delays, I pick up obsessions with a cold temper and say from the heart: I didn’t know and I say the word: I don’t say (I still can’t believe in life) and dismiss the verse like someone nodding and living like someone dismiss the anger of having seen.

It is always more difficult to anchor a ship in space.

I wanted to catch an armful of infinity in the light that mixed with me.

I would like to divide my body into heteronyms – I meditate here on the floor, the toxic immobile of time.

In the face of desire, I insist on the wickedness of writing but I don’t know if the goddess rises to the surface or just punishes me with her howls.

I’m jealous of this cigarette you smoke so absently.

I look at the body of a poem for a long time until I lose sight of what is not a body and feel a thread of blood in my gums separate between my teeth.

It’s not a lie, it’s another pain that hurts me. It is a project of walking in a circle, a failure of the object in focus. The intensity of light, in the afternoon, in the garden, is different, the pain that hurts.