FILLING STATION Poem by Carlos de Oliveira

I place my leisurely hand on the hoods of these cars like someone stroking the
mane of a horse. They come in dying of thirst. I imagine that they've been lost in the
desert and that their destiny is just to be in a rush. In this job I listen to the sound of
the gears, the subtle movement of the world accelerating bit by bit. Who am I,
meanwhile, what scale do I have for weighing without error my life and the dreams
of those who are passing by?