Por: Elisabeth Maria de Souza Camilo

The mists, called haze in these lands,

flow down to ancestral rooftops

of ancestral cities in Minas

and cover the streets, the mountains, the people

with clothing dreamed into reality by virgin brides:

transparent, light, and mysterious veils

leaving only shapes, shadows

of really is…


A landscape so common in these lands

surrounded by mountains,

eternal and vestal sentinels,

the brumes transcend storms

by moistening and bringing out poetry in full

under the eyes of the poet…

Women in the windows, a sad city

crying for no apparent reason.

Children prisoners to walls and clothing,

they do not understand, but find beautiful

the mist outside…


Capable hands, several brushes, a thousand colors,

and an artist thinking of the almost shapeless shapes

of the fog that drips through the air,

of the almost transparent white flooding the square,

of the eternity of cold and poetry,

of nature’s bridal dress,

of the day’s sensual transparency,

of the cold, yet exciting night…

And painter-sculptor draws the first lines

of what would be a canvas showing the mists:

mists of London, mists of Avalon?

No, the light and soft mists that find

the eyes of those who stop facing this canvas

and observe, for the first time, after so many mists

have enveloped him, even surprised him with their beauty,

a perspective of the mists of Layon!


To my dear friend Elias, with love, for the excellent work that he does in translating in virgin canvasses the mists that envelop our city so often.