Poudredepapier

From everything a little remained. From my fear. From your disgust. From stifled cries. From the rose a little remained. 
A little remained of light caught inside the hat. In the eyes of the pimp a little remained of tenderness, very little. (...) 
Since from everything a little remains, why won't a little of me remain? In the train travelling north, in the ship, why not a little of me in London, a little of me somewhere? In a consonant? In a well? 
From everything a little remained and from everything a little remains. Oh, open the bottles of lotion and smoother the cruel, unbearable odor of memory. Still, horribly, from everything a little remains, under the rhythmic waves, the clouds and the wind, under the bridges and under the tunnels, under the flames, the sarcasm, the spectacle and the scarlet death, under the ties of family, the ties of class, from everything a little always remains. 
Sometimes a button. Sometimes a rat.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade (exc.)