Ghosts In Brazil

In my country the ghosts wander at night.
They howl like ghouls.
I hear their cry,
Watching from the roof
as the tanks roll by.
They seek the kin to whom they couldn’t say goodbye.
They seek and they can’t find.
But there’s a scent in the wind
they’ve picked up.
A rotten stench,
that left a trail.
More and more the spirits fly to its source,
and each night they circle the abode of the wicked man who mocked their suffering and their deaths.
He sits there with his generals, with his lies, with his guns.
But the fate that comes to grab him is not from this world.
The souls that circles above are not vultures, they are clear and translucent like thin veils in the storm.
They can’t be shot down,
they can’t be fooled,
they can’t be lied to.
They see his face and know his crime.
Those are the ghosts that whisper his name in the night.

L.A. Pontes is a Brazilian writer living with his wife and six dogs on the bushy outskirts near the city of Belo Horizonte. His writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in LITRO UK, Eunoia Review and The New Verse News. Read other articles by L.A..