If Peter Pan came looking for me one blue night,
let him find me in the dark. Please let him forget to turn off the light,
lest he finds out, that I tend to lie,
when I swear being still that child.
Who is going to tell him that the big city
didn't leave any, not even one, alive?.
Shooting stars, my briefest instant, they breathe the smoke,
they listen to the hollow rumble that springs from their bellies.
They were hurled off the cliff
of the cruel favela1,
they run away from the hyenas, the death squads.
If Peter Pan came looking for me one blue night,
let the suns be extinguished, where on earth will you hide?
Mowgly will be sewing boots in Ceylon,
he won't hear Bagheera's roaring in the night.
Tom Sawyer will laugh behind the smoke of crack
if he makes it alive out of this raid.
If Peter Pan came looking for me one blue night,
let him find me in the dark, please, turn off the lights.
Lest in the storm,
he is burned by elderly children's fever.
Who will make him understand that at dawn
they lock with shackles their weary eyes?
Children I lost, whom I lied,
shout in the distance, scratch the ice of the morning light.
Children with thorns, with empty eye-sockets,
throw stones at you
coloring the sirens of every ambulance.
