A Hora Poem by Julio 2 Amarante
A Hora
Agora a hora, se Universal, nada muda deste real,
Desta hora de demora em que se espera e se tolera,
E se se pinta de cor de rosa o corpo incandescente,
E se perfilha em si algo de demente e transcendente
Que, afinal, provavelmente é apenas a morte que se tem na mente.
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: introspection,readiness
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7/19/2025 8:39:09 PM # 1.0.0
The state of the art of neurology, molecular biology, Big Data based psyco-preemptive algorithms, are still incapable of telling me what I am going to do after this K stroke. Maybe hear Eric W. about, whatever Blokeness may be. Époustouflant.