That man who walks all alone
Along those squares, those streets,
Has in himself an enormous secret.
He is a man.
That woman like all the others
Along those squares, those streets
Has in herself a cruel surprise.
She is a woman.
The woman meets the man,
They smile and hold hands,
The surprise and the secret expand
Violently.
But the shadow of the restless one
Guards that mystery in the dark.
Death watches with her scythe.
Verily,
it is night.
(Mario de Andrade)
