Passer-by honor to the paintings of Antoni Miró
Teresinka Pereira
My fingers are walking
in silent delirium
and my hungry eyes
devour in a flight
the museums of Miró
not with words,
but with acoustics,
the dogs of Miró
not with barks,
but with a lot of blood,
the buildings of Miró
in direct lines
or in curves that collide,
women masks,
children of panic look,
men kneeling
with the shame of being beggars,
the valour of immigrants
and the fear of tourists,
the irony of Manhattan
and the stock market of Kuwait,
the Twin Towers of New York
and the tortured men of Abu Graib
and still the relics of cans
colourful, pre-bio-ethanol grains,
scapulars, post-assassins bales,
pyramids, torsos, doors, stairs,
the whole world of Miró,
