Domicile by Carlos Drummond de Andrade — Read

. The apartment opened windows to the world. Children came to glean from the ocean air the news of life to be lived or of that inner life we forget we're missing. The poverty of earth was greater among the metals mixed up on the street with ugly bodies in a hurry, unsure. The echoes receded in solitude from the terrace, and every exile turned into many, and another city outside the cityrose slowly on a fishhook, a crooked catch, a widespread ill, a problem of existing, unused love.