Poem by Eugénio de Andrade
Your face bent by the breeze;
the ferocious whiteness of your teeth;
your hands somehow irresponsible,
in any case somber, in any case transparent;
the cruel triumph of your legs
columns at rest when night falls;
your level breast, clear, made of water;
your quiet mouth where one longs
to sail or sing, or simply be
the color of a fruit, the weight of a flower;
the words pierced by joy and terror,
biting into solitude;
They are the great cause, the only cause.
Due to weak participation the competition of June was canceled.
We hope this month subject is more moving.