Poem written by my grandfather, Dagmar Pinto, in honor of his son,  Otávio, who died in the early age of 33, leaving wife and 3 young daughters.
Originally published in Portuguese in 1965 by famous local newspaper “A TARDE”. I’ve translated to English and I hope it maintains its beauty.




There are waving hands

— Surprised distressed wings —

To the impossible tomorrow,

One that never came.


There are waving hands

From misterious regions,

In a useless plea to life:

Hands that sowed love

Through the paths — this glorious light

That changes the world

And puts a rose in each wound.


From the top of immensity

There are waving hands,

In a silent anguish,

To the three lilies of your blood,

Your own living flesh


There are waving hands

To the stars far away,

That shines like your dreams,

Now reflected in my soul,

In search of infinity.


My son, listen:

It feels like the city is dying

That things and beings decay

Before the hopeless long absence.


In a past wrapped in mists,

That sadly frays,

I see your outstretched hands

From the waking child,

Within the intense night,

To the faint broken dream.


I shall always have you in my eyes

Your lightless eyes,

Your lifeless cold body

But from the other side of life

There are waving hands.

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