Perhaps it was in a dream that I saw your ashen face gleam, Death, and your cold scythe and your icy breath, unbearable, upon me.
But my day had not yet come; it was a stranger who fell beside me, in the dead of night, and I could continue my way with my head bowed.
But in my heart, I detested you without fearing you, and I felt that life was better, and with serenity, I composed these vows and prayers of the dead.
May the mystery that exists in all death be dignified in its simplicity in mine.
And may my wake be like a little farewell party, where those who are left with red eyes can laugh without remorse.
And those who leave would think only: "Let's go to a bar; he's not going because he can't"; and thus express confidence in me.
And two years later, some men would suddenly start talking about me, laughing, remembering my name and image with affectionate curses, may my memory help them to drink more, and with more pleasure.
May some unknown woman, in an hour of anguish or dejection, happen to read something of mine and feel a comfort there, as if from a companion's hand.
And may it also be that, for two lovers, something I wrote in passion could make their happiness more luminous.
May all that I said out of boredom or affectation be forgotten, may my obscure lesson be a lesson of insatiable freedom and a taste for life.
May those who were my friends not need to forget or disguise my flaws for me to be esteemed after death, and remember me as a man - a vague block of things - capable of being tolerated and possibly useful.
May my voice help the poor and the humbled to have hope and the will to fight.
May something of all that I did be able to carry to the powerful man, behind his stupendous resources and his perfect theories and thousands of cabinet officers and secretaries, a humble message in favor of the poor, dark, and sad humanity of Brazil.
And may it also carry to the believing man, proud of his belief, a bit of hesitation and tolerance.
And may the women I dealt with forget my moments of boredom and affliction and remember of me what I said and did best, in the great moments of tenderness, which are the moments of truth.
And you, who were the last of my friends, may my memory also be gentle to you - just the vague hand resting on your shoulder and the lost voice saying your name, with the simplest affection, and an almost happy tone.
BRAGA, Rubens. In A cidade e a roça. Rio de Janeiro, José Olympio, 1957. p.75-77
