O último ônibus

Abstract

It is dark. A slight rain dampens the streets. Nothing moves in Lota's park. The palms hang over the matted grass, and the voluminous bushes, bundled in sheets, billow beside the walks. The world is out of reach. The ghosts of bathers rise slowly out of the surf and turn high in the spray. They walk on the beach and their eyes burn like stars. And Rio sleeps: the sea is a dream in which it dies and is reborn. The bus speeds. A violet cloud unravels in its wake. My legs begin to shake. My lungs fill up with steam. Sweat covers my face and falls to my chest. My neck and shoulders ache.