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And then, out of the pain
came beauty,

beating its majestic black wings
and bearing all the flaws
that conspired to
make it perfect and pure.

Vagabond soul
hand painted,
torn and tormented
by people who take
a twisted kind of pleasure
in being unexpectedly cruel,
the grinding gears of chance,
being at the wrong place
at the wrong time
through fate’s obscure design,
found alleys of kindness
to sleep in
on days of rough weather
and kept pieces of warmth
in her pockets
to turn into the only currency
honored by angels.

Legend has it
she hurt until
she learned
to dance with lightning,
wept enough tears to
set fire to the rain,
conquered the night
on her bare feet and
casually passed words
in a roomful of philosophers
over shot glasses of poison
and Russian roulette

and came out alive,

the science of her
inimitable survival
writing her name on the wall
and tattooing the sun.

There, now,
she sits in the solace
of her secrets
on the edge of the living sky
with the world in her hands.

“Verão Means Summer”
by photographer Pedro Lopes


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