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Poesia das ruas

by Mariano Machado (Brazil)

Cuba

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Mornings in Havana begin in silence, very slowly, slowed down. They start lazy, opening their eyes slowly and barely wanting to get up. I do not see the frenetic pace of other capitals. She has her own rhythm, her own time.
Mornings in Havana begin in silence, very slowly, slowed down. They start lazy, opening their eyes slowly and barely wanting to get up. I do not see the frenetic pace of other capitals. She has her own rhythm, her own time.
The rhythm of the streets is Tai Chi, where the locals show themselves to be excellent practitioners of art. The movements are slow and careful. The eyes follow each coming and going of hands and arms.
The rhythm of the streets is Tai Chi, where the locals show themselves to be excellent practitioners of art. The movements are slow and careful. The eyes follow each coming and going of hands and arms.
What used to be destroyed, now is to behold. From this point it is possible to be enchanted with the Caribbean sea around us and let our thoughts and dreams go further.
What used to be destroyed, now is to behold. From this point it is possible to be enchanted with the Caribbean sea around us and let our thoughts and dreams go further.
This nostalgia that takes hold on every corner of Havana is thrilling and magical. To be able to return to the past through a living and pulsating city.
This nostalgia that takes hold on every corner of Havana is thrilling and magical. To be able to return to the past through a living and pulsating city.
They are people who dream little. They look for in each tourist a friend, a new history and who knows until getting a caramel of the new friend
They are people who dream little. They look for in each tourist a friend, a new history and who knows until getting a caramel of the new friend

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