Mario Belolli (Prepared Angela Kosta)
Moderator 
POEM BY MARIO BELOLLI
Mario Belolli. Florianópolis - State of Santa Catarina (Brazil). Historian, biographer, poet and cultural promoter. Bachelor and Degree in History from the Federal University of Santa Catarina – UFSC, Emeritus member of the Historical and Geographical Institute of the State of Santa Catarina, Corresponding Emeritus member of the Bolivian Academy of History, member of the Criciumense Academy of Letters, member of the Criciumense Academy of Philosophy, creator of Workers' Unions, creator of the ComPar-Poesía cultural project, with national and international participation, is the author and co-author of a dozen history and biography books, regional and statewide.
I MISS WORDS!
Every morning, before breakfast,
a poem calls me.
Call on me to write to you
Words fail me, they mistreat me,
my hands tremble,
they sketch, tearing up paper.
Leftover paper.
In the cold wind that blows,
Take draft pages.
Torn,
They fall into the basket at the spilled edge.
Thinking never ends,
Without poetry, everything is ruin.
Words and drafts succumb
Poetry cries out, calls me.
Now, with no paper to spare,
Charge me to write to you.
Words fail me,
They mistreat.
SUBLIME RESULT
In the search I did in the soul,
It has an index that delights everyone.
There is no tie between poetry and poem.
The pains will be healed,
the problems resolved.
The birds continue to sing,
at the dawn of the day,
that frames with sweetness,
poem and poetry.
In the imposing dawn,
of the illuminated path,
in the elegance of your steps,
I observe your gestures,
your charm,
your look.
your lips conflicted in desires,
for kisses.
Hair that flies in the wind,
fall lightly on your shoulders
The light silk that covers you,
ennoble your body,
The marks of your feet,
on the white sand of the sea
leave memories behind...
I MISS WORDS!
Every morning, before breakfast,
a poem calls me.
Call on me to write to you
Words fail me, they mistreat me,
my hands tremble,
they sketch, tearing up paper.
Leftover paper.
In the cold wind that blows,
Take draft pages.
Torn,
They fall into the basket at the spilled edge.
Thinking never ends,
Without poetry, everything is ruin.
Words and drafts succumb
Poetry cries out, calls me.
Now, with no paper to spare,
Charge me to write to you.
Words fail me,
They mistreat.
SUBLIME RESULT
In the search I did in the soul,
It has an index that delights everyone.
There is no tie between poetry and poem.
The pains will be healed,
the problems resolved.
The birds continue to sing,
at the dawn of the day,
that frames with sweetness,
poem and poetry.
In the imposing dawn,
of the illuminated path,
in the elegance of your steps,
I observe your gestures,
your charm,
your look.
your lips conflicted in desires,
for kisses.
Hair that flies in the wind,
fall lightly on your shoulders
The light silk that covers you,
ennoble your body,
The marks of your feet,
on the white sand of the sea
leave memories behind...
