Stateless: “something or someone who, having lost their nationality of origin, has not acquired another; all that is
officially found homeless”.
My heart beats faster when I see myself in meanings.
My soul smiles every time the shy Dublin sun decides to show up.
There is something in my Tupi blood that is recognised in the Irish senses.
As a child, I dreamed of running through green hills with golden glow. I saw my feet touching a clay that was not Brazilian.
About the rainbows, I could only see their colours.
Today, I see immensities.
My land has palm trees where the thrushes sing.
But the crows I found here…
They could never fly around there.
I lost myself among poetry that was mine and no longer belongs to me.
I don’t even know how to be myself.
From Latin blood, I have only music left.
I slipped between the cracks bordering the Liffey River.
The words are mixed, today the word is half Portuguese half English. An infinite of
conjunctions and adverbs I can’t use anymore.
About crimes, I have committed some perhaps irreparable. Against all homelands.
I became this nomadic
which is neither here nor there.
And Gonçalves Dias couldn’t be more assertive when he said…
My land has palm trees
Where the thrush sings.
May God never allow
That I die before I return.
What kind of love is this so sore? What a burning longing…
Always walking on rustic stones…
Dublin’ streets are always so wet…
Even me, who came from a not so “Joyful Harbour”… Even me, here I am. In all these harbours surrounding the Island.
Trapped by all the fears I brought in the luggage.
I can’t talk about outside without going inside, and when I talk about Dublin, I’m just that
slender matter that forms us before a breath.
When I think of the flowers.
When I think of shamrocks.
When I think of the fine winter drizzle of December.
Oh, If I could draw…
But my talent is flawed and I fear not knowing how to express everything I see.
If I can see it.
Sometimes I assume that my existence has finally become art.
It’s a lucid dream that I don’t want to wake up from.
I am an immigrant.
I’m a wanderer.
I am Brazil and I am Dublin.
Soaked in the delirium caused by a pint of Guinness.
- Porto Alegre (local; “Joyful Harbour”) is the capital and largest city in the Brazilian state of Rio Grande do Sul.
Sara Ribeiro, a restless mind. Moon in Pisces. Addicted to existential crises. They say my drama is funny and maybe that makes it easier to read. She is from Porto Alegre, RS – Brazil and is currently living in Dublin. More of her writings in the link: https://medium.com/inquietamente.
[This poem was published in our first issue • “Connections Brazil & Ireland” • in Dec 2020]
Translation by Paola Benevides.