A POEM BY MIA COUTO
The poet does agriculture upside down: with a single seed he plants the whole earth. With a hoe blade, the word hurts time: it cuts off the umbilical cord of what may be a fertile ground.
At the end of the crop the poet has no account to close:
he only has what he cannot reap. After all, it was not the word that he was missing. It was the life that he, in him, did not know
Mia Couto
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