The queue is long

like a train serpentine,

crawling in silence

at the borders;

the faces, all vacant

Heaven is a prison.

Sergeant Peter is a monolith,

Of cruel bureaucracies and protocols.

Let us see what crimes you have committed –

Beauty in Brazil is a cracked mirror. Fragmented by a colonial past, and the decades of suffering that have accompanied it, and at the same time bound together, if only in the most fragile way, by the tenacity of its own resistance.