
A prisoner of my class and some clothing, I walk,
dressed in white along the gray street.
Melancholy and merchandise harass me.
Must I keep going until I collapse?
Can I rebel without arms?
Filthy eyes in the tower clock
No, the time of complete justice hasn’t come.
It’s still the time for dung, bad poetry, phantasms and hope.
A poor time and a poor poet
Melt together in the same impasse.
In vain I try to explain myself, but the walls are deaf.
Beneath the skin of the words there are ciphers and codes.
The sun consoles the sick but does not renew them.
Things. How sad things are, considered without emphasis. A flower bloomed in the street!
To vomit this ennui on the city.
Forty years and no problem solved, not even stated.
No letter written or received.
The men all return home.
They are less free but carry newspapers and spell out the world, knowing they are losing it.
Crimes of the earth, how to pardon them?
I took part in many, others I hid.
Some I thought clever, they were published.
Smooth crimes, that help one to live.
The daily ration of error, home-delivered.
The fierce bakers of wrong.
The fierce milkmen of wrong.
To set fire to everything, me included.
They called the boy of 1918 an anarchist.
But my hate is the best part of me.
With it I save myself
and give to a few a small hope.
Let the trolleys, busses, the steel river of traffic, keep their distance.
A flower still in bud
Eludes the police, pierces the asphalt.
Observe complete silence, stop all business,
I swear a flower grew.
You can’t see its color.
Its petals aren’t open
Its name isn’t in the books.
It’s ugly, but really–it’s a flower.
I sit on the ground of the capital of the country at five in the afternoon
and slowly pass my hand on this insecure form.
Beside the mountains, massive clouds pile up.
Little white dots move on the sea, chickens in panic.
It’s ugly. But it’s a flower. It breached the asphalt, the ennui, the nausea and the hate.
Carlos Drummond de Andrade, The Flower and the Nausea
In Brazil, we are witnessing this intensification of violence, repression, and electronic surveillance not as an interruption of the rule of law, but as an extension of its logic. Today this is called the “austerity policy”—the similarities with Greece are evident, especially in Rio de Janeiro. These austerity measures are only the latest reallocation of resources in a centuries-ongoing series of colonial robberies channeling resources from the public purse into the pockets of the powerful, a process that precedes democracy yet has been stabilized by it. What is disappearing now is the illusory promise of isonomy (self-rule and equality under the law) that supposedly qualified Brazil as a modern democracy.
From the Crimethinc Collective, reflections on the “exceptional” politics of Brazil …
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The fear of the ZAD of Notre-Dame-des-Landes
Forms of life enter into conflict when one or both can survive only by the colonisation of the other. Capitalism as a political project – and it is essentially a political project – cannot but actively undermine and destroy alternative, incompatible ways of being in the world; especially those that would explicitly contest its hegemony.
It is against this background that one must understand the determination of the french state to destroy the ZAD of Notre-Dame-des-Landes. If the State retreated on its plans to build an airport on these lands – in the end, a minor setback – it will not allow the reality and thus possibility of collective autonomy, as this has developed within the ZAD, to persist.
But the resistance itself continues, spreading beyond the confines of the region.
We join in sharing the calls for solidarity with the ZAD; may they multiply, may the resistance extend, and may ever more ZADs flourish.
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