amor maislimpo:servir. Daquelaclaridadeque a devocao impoe aospuros.A vida inteira num sogesto:servir. Acorde seestendendo(quem O desfere?) alemdos circulosde nossas noitesordinarias.E que instrumento temoldaste!,em que o rumor, reinotao fragil,de nota em notacondensou-seem menos fel e maisaltura.Disso se trata: dar aofardosecreto e anonimo demuitosa proporcao de outrapromessa.Quando pedir emaravilha,de porta em porta a maoque planta.Forca de florperfuma esana,conforme a agua do seuvaso,as vezes barro, as vezessombra,espera sempre. Ve:precarioartesanato aocontorna-la.Aqui estao teus ossos,dulcissima.E quando o po alumbra emdom. CHAPEL OF ST. ANTHONYS HOSPITALfor Sister Dulce Pontes,the Good Angel of BahiaYou emerged from thecentury to enterthe dimension of lovethat is most clean:to serve. From theclaritythat devotion imposesupon the pure.The whole of life in asole gesture:to serve. You wake upextending yourself(who sets you going?)beyond the circlesof our ordinary nights.And what an instrumentyou molded!in which discord,precarious king,note by note condensedinto less gall and morelift.The matters this: togrant the secretand anonymous burden ofmanythe proportion ofanother promise.When to implore alms isa marvel,door to door the handthat plants.Force of flower, itperfumes and curesconforms to the water ofits vaseat times clay, at timesshadeIt always awaits. Seehow precariousis the handicraft thatlends it contour.Here are your bones, osweetest.When this dust illuminesinto gift.Translators Note on Chapelof St. Anthonys Hospital. With few resources, and by asking for funds, Sister (Irma) DulcePontes almost single-handedly organized the construction of the hospital, whichnow daily serves thousands free of charge in Salvador, Bahia. She devoted herlife tohelping the poor (1914-1992, beatified 1991).FROM A FONTE VERTICALRezei, sai. Vou deonibus. Ponto lotado. Ja foipior, pensei. Que facoou que farei me queima.Conheco aquela mulher,vai cansada: Ei, ola! Digo: Oi.Fico em pe, espremido,mas a voz, sim, teima,a voz, sem trela (nao,nao deveria sair do Sao Bento),nao vai me abandonar,querela que nao cessa.No avanca-para doonibus, luto (abafado e sem vento)e apanho dos misterios(caimbra) da promessa,do ja sabido inegavel,refeito a suspiro e exaustao,das vertigens do corpo eos tumultos cardiacos,esse intervalo taofragil que exploro sem (troco de mao)recursos, aferrado nomeu tom maniaco.Depois da curva, ooceano desfralda-se, quero e delironesse rompante emlevantar o veu de tudo,fracasso. Desco na orla,o mar chama-me. Nao vou. Respiroa transparencia absolutae quedo mudo. FROM THE VERTICAL SOURCEI prayed, went out. Thebus stop, packed. It was worse before,I thought. What Im doingor what I will do is burning me.I know that woman whosays, fatigued: "Hey there!" I reply "Hi."I stay standing,squeezed in, but the voice, yes, insistswithout letup (no, Imnot getting off at Saint Benedict)its not going to let mego, the quarrel without cease.In the bussstop-and-go, stuffed in, craving a breeze, I struggleand Im catchingmysteries (cramp!) of the promisethe already known,undeniable, refashioned as sighsand dizziness, cardiactumultsthis fragile interval Iexplore (now changing hands)without stratagems, mypersistent tone of the maniac.After the curve, theocean unfurls, I desire the deliriumof this outburst thatlifts the veil from everything,I go down to the shore,the sea calling me. I dont go. Stayingquiet, I breathe theabsolute transparency. NITIDEZ SUBMERSANos sapatos confortaveisum pouco velhos e gastosa fuligem das cidadesredesenha o seu mapa.Nao me venham comsaudades,sombras, vultos efantasmas,o peso e a profundidadedas coisas nao nossufocam.Dos caminhos caminhadosavenidas, becos,pracasmultidoes tumultuosasna fuligem dos sapatos.Po do mundo respiradoem seu tedio corrosivo,nao escapam os voosaltosdas naves maisarrojadas.Na verdade, nada