"Youth poems" were written between 1992 and 2012 and survived. Maybe I should have torn these and kept others, or otherwise, but this is the only one possible now.
Poppy
For the red poppies I see from the balcony of this bound hope
I want to tell you that what I feel about life is red, like blood, and it tends to fade like brocade.
I know you were looking at me when I picked the petals of this always counterfeit memory, populated with ghosts and irremissions. I hope you keep, in this paradise, where everything is the same, the life I had when I was happy. It erases the ghosts, the mistakes, the suffering and the death and leaves the poppy, immutable, in that field in which I remember them, in that field that I keep, red as were my hope on the green.
I have always lacked objectivity, clarity... I have seen beauty, but it does not attribute to it its value; I have troubled everything in a sea of despair.
By the burning sun, through the entire galaxy... help me spring.
Lydia
Sitting by the river I dream of a Lydia you're not.
There are riots of yours that are seen even in the still waters which is to look at you by this river.
You're worse than the wind, worse than the storm,
However,
You're still, still, contained
As a whole river of life passes.
You,
You don't drain anywhere,
You're worse than the chain
– Passes without a wall, frets, throats
And it's only me who hurts that still state of yours,
But inside you you're dyed current
Blood of what hurts you to live.
Inside you is hatred, murder
Owned by those who lock themselves in a little box,
The rays, the winds, the desires and all the will
To run free into a sea
That's not even the end of this river
Not another one that stays anywhere
Let it be known.
So everything I see in you today,
It's dead waters, still waters...
You're Lydia after all.
– Dead waters, still waters...
By no river.
1998 – about. The dates of these are calculated from memory, not right. Between 2000 and 2014 I don't remember the dates at all. All those who don't date are from the new century.
This is the first of some poems inspired by the poem "Come sit with me, Lydia, by the river" by Fernando Pessoa, in the heteronym of Ricardo Reis.
Lydia I
Lydia by the river
Who runs like the sea is
A place to rest...
Lydia of indifference
I feel your presence
The charm that doesn't change.
We're both here.
Knowing that later
There's nothing but an uncertain
Sea or desert
Growing inside us...
I know I can't keep it
The fierce current that passes
But let go of your hair
And tell me the secret
of your peace,
Your grace.
You have no secrets!
Everything is clear and open
If you're awake
To live
And run like a river
No End to Death
That's our luck
Like everything that was
It doesn't even hurt anymore.
We're both here.
And don't let go of your hair
So you don't miss the ball.
The thread you're attached to the moment.
To the moment of knowing
That we could even want her
Wrap your hands and die.
I wish
I wish I wasn't human, being anything but human. I wish I could forgive myself easily, whenever I'm wrong...
I wish it wasn't me, everyone but me...
I wish I believed in the absolution of being me...
I wish I could erase myself from this story...
I wish I was a raincoat or a hat. I wish I was the resin of a meek pine...
I wish there was no blood...
I wish I didn't stay at the permanent stop of time and space... I wish I believed in Jesus Christ...
I wish I believed in priceless miracles.
Hail
Save everything I desire,
Impossible and unforeseen yearning
To live simply what I have
Inside my strange heart
To the reality of what is real
– This is the profound cause of my evil.
I just wanted to live the world...
That pleasure would enter my veins,
This vague dream of living
Without feeling in the insides of the bottom
The always present throbbing
Of all the absent great joy.
1998
Violets
You've got so many dreams wrapped up in your forehead.
You wait on the stairs to climb forgiveness
Of your violet days
That you dream entangled, almost black
The purple or violets you held with your hand...
Your fingers pray... Let the door on top open!
I know, you've left the foot of the stairs.
Just lie there forgotten
Waiting no time, this lost branch
Of everything you wanted,
From everything you dreamed...
1996
Partition
I leave sad to feel the painful life burning in tears that flow from you that have dried fountains of hard stones from a hellish cold desert where I write this permanent longing for a life that does not exist and never existed. It hurts to see you, it hurts to have your life in mine. I want to leave so I don't feel, so I don't feel anything, so I don't suffer. I long, however, for impossible regressions to the ideal, which would have been if it had been good, to what it was, to this inner tragedy that unfolds in the deepest basement of the heart, which will always go with me – this way of seeing the sidewalk and loving it because I stepped on it.
Fear
Cadavers of democracy (fear has taken over ambulances, the devil's secretary makes plans for our burial and, banished we fear the worst: never to be on our land), youth we spend under the neon sign that says: work frees.
In this concentrated field of the wear of the hour, without a god on our side, the shackles of mediocrity bolted to the ankles, a curtain of hatred in the eyes, will we surrender to despair?
Can we scream out loud, "I'm not a rat"?
They well know we all have a point where we bend or leave.
Inspired by Alexander O’Neil’s "unoriginal poetry of fear".
I later made other versions.
When I die
When I die I want to be just dust, no blood... When I die, I want to die forever. No, I don't want eternity, no eternity... just the ephemeral music of the edges of your salty tears, warm sea currents where I embrace you in the bottom of the blue, painless inside, in the secret and secret place of the breast; the place where life is formed from which I didn't want to wake up to be conscious, nervous, bone, muscle, veins... Wets my dust of tears and falls asleep to the sound of music with scent of roses in wet hair, to make little waves, sea waves, in this chill of feeling life in sweet hands. Give me a chill before my body freezes and returns to earth, to the dust of the stars...
Yes, when I die I want to die forever and no, I don't want to go back, always the same,
always with your soul in flames and flames... no, don't give me Christ's blood... no blood, no eternal life.
God the creator of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible, of good and evil, of cruel nature, I do not want your creation, to return here and perhaps to many places of time and space: forever the same thing, this came from matter, this restlessness of blood, this convulsion of vomiting, this pain... What about the beauty I see? What about the music? And the chill... let it, let it all please... Can't you see that nothing is worth it, that nothing is always better than something, that emptiness is more viable? Simple, easy, no need for understanding... No, don't be lonely, demon town... Yes, boredom... They entertain in another way. It creates only beings without history or cartoons. Leave me alone, or explain things to me. No, I don't understand anything... just the fact that the matter eats the matter to become something else... for what? For poets to live, why is beauty only seen to be contrary? What good if you have an evil, pleasure in pain, aesthetics in suffering? Leave me alone. Give me a sleep, a deep sleep and no, I don't want this anymore... fall asleep now! I want to spend all the afternoons of eternity sleeping. I don't like playing pebbles, I said I don't like it! I don't like any game I play. It creates football. Watch football. Just leave the football players or some other game and you'll see them forever in the stage of eternity.
Next door
Next door
On the edge
On the edge of the roof
The flowers of the garden grow
They are lilies of the field
And the scarf that fell overboard was white
In blue it became
In salt you forgot
In the dark eternity of the abyss
Malmequer of the shallow edge
Sun shade and horizon
Field lilies
– Purple poison
In sharp crystal
Like razors
♪ With the end line ♪
The world broke in the air
Like the jar of candy
of the last grocery store
Garden of stones
At the foot of the abyss that enters the soul
Flowers sown in the field of explosion
Flowers that are razors or bifaces where bodies and bodies are thrown looking for jobs
Or better jobs.
1995
The guilt
It's not the masons' fault.
Of the simple sailors
Government and disgovernment
The lie about me being tender...
It's not the prophets' fault.
Nor the magnificent poets
It's not the fault of hope.
Which I only have in memory
It's not the coffee's fault
Nor the lack of faith
It's not my fault.
Nor will it be God's fault
It's my fault.
For burying everything he had deep down.
It's the guilt of not having the courage
To live by mirage
Of all that I am after all
In everything very uneven
To what is confined
This fine moth
Of living color
In which all my pain is woven
View
Leaving behind a veil
I saw our Lord of Heaven
Down to the earth,
On a romantic afternoon...
I was dressed as Prada,
With the tunic clearing the road...
Loaded with the ivory cross,
Crowned with jasmine flowers,
It was between us here
Sandals made in Italy.
Gloss to Freedom
Oh, what a pleasure
Not knowing the tables,
Always have the wrong bill!
Math is boring,
When you don't learn anything.
The Sun Doira
Not counting
The river runs, good or bad,
And always uneven.
And the breeze, this,
Of so naturally inaccurate
How undecided I am...
Living is a far line from the straight line.
And winning may not even be cutting the goal
Or it could be that and nothing.
The better a sea of foam,
Find a Sebastian,
Whether you meet or not!
Well it's the gold, the diamonds, the silver...
But the best thing in the world is to have a lot of nerve,
Hotels, cars, mansions,
And feed the poor lions.
More than that.
It's Jesus Christ,
Who knew nothing of equations,
and continues to sponsor publications.
II
Oh, what a pleasure
Failure to do duty
Having firsthand news
And give it to the dog!
Information is boring,
The news was nothing.
♪ The sun's golden ♪
Why don't you read the paper.
The river runs, good or bad,
No direct to the channel.
And the breeze, this,
Because it's naturally morning,
If you have time, it doesn't matter...
News is words, paint or no ink.
The event is indistinct
The distinction between nothing and nothing.
The better, even without mist,
Waiting to make a million
Whether you win or not!
Great is poetry, kindness and dances...
But you can't say it's also the children...
Flowers, music, moonlight, and the sun upset
of amendment declared in a statement.
More than that.
It's Jesus Christ,
I didn't see the news.
And launched a universal brand...
Inspired by Fernando Pessoa's poem "Freedom"
Gloss to Europe
Europe lies
Dead...
the left elbow landed,
in peace,
but pie,
saw the bull mortgaged...
Europe lies.
Is he asleep?
Will you be at peace?
Back on the elbow
Right, it even makes us smile
The spins that spin the ball...
Europe lies
Prostrate,
Stirring the sea,
In awe of tears,
You're blind to crying.
Europe lies
Dead,
With his face twitched,
Fitting the world so old,
So wrong,
Like what you see in the mirror.
Europe lies
Dead,
But nobody sees it.
They think you only sleep
Under the commitment firm,
When it turns out to be
To his old face, shriveled
With which you gaze the vast sea
Where the fado was invented...
As there was no bull
Europe has not been kidnapped
Bet your weight on gold:
Europe never existed,
Europe was just dreamt,
Or it's stuck by a thread.
2012
Inspired by Fernando Pessoa's Poem "Europe lies on the elbows"
Station
Station of this train that leaves and leaves me. I rarely have glory. I don't even know if you'll wait. I got lost one afternoon when I waited for you at the station.
Then they took him away from where he never came back.
So what do you say? Do you want to come or not?
There were people in hats talking and a mysterious light that framed in an image all that moment I waited for.
You came by bus after all, as you always would, but I don't want to. I'll wait for you at the station that no longer exists. In the written lines of this desire where I first went south, thinking it was north, I don't know.
There's a piano I want you on. The man in the hat spoke of cows – ruminants. He bought two for 40,000 kings or something. No, at the time it wasn't the tales the money out of use but hard to stop using in speech. It was a long time ago, there were still inaccessible saws and trains.
In the place there was no music but an unreachable piano in which you played regals of hope in the cascades of the smile of the man who bought the cows. That day was poetry I never knew how to say, just keep.
The train was too late, it was still only in yours.
Hands in your pockets and hat... the glow and music of a piano that played warm, golden breezes. Sitting, I'm waiting for you, at a station that no longer exists, where no train stops.
I'm a bear
When I don't feel like dressing like a bear do I seduce?
Yeah.
Apparently!
It's not something that's natural to me.
It's more natural to dress like a bear.
Most days I want to be alone.
In others I want company.
One day I just want your company
limited,
Of course it's this idea
Because you never see me as I am, you're never in my company
And lonely soldier doesn't go to the army.
You can find me directly at war.
Baby rain
I always liked the rainy days, little girl.
Where I go for what's not mine
With the drops falling on the face
Waiting, hopeless, unwinds it.
I know everything ends, everything falls apart.
I'll take the wet street
With the glow on the white face
Of beast, iron will I have not
And the rain turns to shine,
This representation I keep.
1992
Postal
Beautiful, Spring Seal
Illustrated Ivy Postcard
National Region of Agony
Infinite field of joy
Reverse lack of being
Today's dream of what tomorrow will be like
Next to you, the other day,
♪ Time when I had you ♪
Kisses and hugs,
Great and imposing ties
♪ Who hold me in despair ♪
To the future and present fear
That in rents it falls apart
This is tied to you
It won't pass.
Impossible.
Fingers that nibble at the heart...
Impulses were of any reason...
Looking forward to an impossible dawn...
Forms of incredible living...
Natural paradises in the desert...
Shrapnel that goes into disconcert,
In the inert immensity of being
With eyes closed without looking
The rising sun;
A hot sun delivered
To felt vain hours
With all the delay,
And on the other side
The book of the impossible prostrate,
Like a block,
Inside which I put myself.
1999
Duty
You should have gotten it right.
You should have sent me roses
When I asked for roses.
You should have marked this vein.
You should have written in blood.
My heart in the garden tree.
Now I sit in the garden,
Without Christ and without you.
Don't! I don't sit in the garden anymore.
I don't think about you anymore.
For poppy...
Pick up the poppies.
Give me the poppies.
You should rhyme better.
You should be on the same page.
You should be right.
You should never miss.
You should get up early.
1996
♪ I got a stone saved ♪
The night of the contours came
From shadow delimitations
Of pearl lights
In powders of moon
♪ I look at the lake deep ♪
In black blue.
The mystery approaches me,
The feeling of strong blue in the blood.
I drive evil spirits away for now...
The distance that separates me from the autumn sun
It's a distance of water and moon, all around,
Making the branches of trees in the dark
Which drop the brown leaves.
– The big, strong trees
They tear up the old black soil.
I know you came in at night, in substance.
During my tumult sleep.
You're better in substance than you are.
You're better before me
Than before me
And all that is pragmatic.
Now I can keep you
At the bottom of the lake.
1993
Coffee
So you're okay, huh? Can I get you some coffee?
Can't you change the flag and follow another war?
Goodbye then and have a good vacation.
You might still come and pour me coffee.
He waits in the afternoon for an umbrella...
Extended in the street, stretched the hook
And an endless blue tunnel, where we're going.
Go away star forever, because I can't wait for you to come down here.
Goodbye bird and cicada, black cigarillo and half,
In your bed you have my taste to wish you in the ditch
From your eyes, torn enamel, raw moon, oil sun and lamp
That lights up
Cold night.
Let's get out of here.
Departure the street is skyline, torn in two. Green the fields are,
I don't know which way to put it.
Go away light bird,
In heaven there is no more love,
I don't want you in ultralight.
Or whatever it is.
I want everything, I want it now...
Knowing where the river will want you like this...
He left on the wire I lost.
I want you horizon
Unable to reach,
I want you beyond the hill.
I want you to love you.
1997
Blue
Dark blue of the deep sea
What color is this?
O emerald?
Blue and red
♪ Curly dreams ♪
Out of the bedless waters...
What a youth this is
What masked mermaid?
What strength, what audacity
Cut off mountain peaks?
What a mystery.
What loneliness
What a glorious life
Standing parallels from the streets?
1994
Four chairs
There were four chairs.
None of them were you.
I can't find any manners anymore.
Touching my chairs...
I dreamt you were coming in.
Through the door torn in me...
I know I was dreaming.
Will there be an end to the dream?
There were four chairs
It's on the table here.
I've lost every way
Just thinking about you
The glass fell on the edge,
It's torn apart.
The glass was broken on the edge...
My heart, just maybe.
One maybe undone at nothing,
From a pain like this
That always seems wrong
This pain to you united.
Leaves
Hidden leaves of the heart
If there was in silence forgiveness
For the unsaid words you said
That I lodge in the piece you lost
When you opened my chest and left
The rents of a dream you didn't love.
It's not for seeing you
It's not because I see you or look,
It's not because I hear you sing,
It's because you feel inside
In a dream of dreaming...
Your voice is a feeling.
I'll grab him in a moment...
Your body has no limit;
Your body is not allowed
Sound or image recording.
More than people or people
You're nothing but a mirage
That my soul feels
When you look at the landscape.
Beyond the smoky cloud
The moment of passion,
More than a sea of foam,
More than an island of illusion,
All your sea is perfume,
Your salt is my jealousy
And your water the union.
Web
In the ball of impossibility
Fragile is the thread
That spider of affinities
Between us he weaved.
Portuguese letter
You could come right now to me. I say what in Portuguese is enough to be too much. In this native language there are words that are not said, by means of something else, and others that say more than any other language, without saying everything.
In this harsh and inconsequential homeland, as if it were no land and the whole world in the lampstand of this room (I do not know if the other children of the world have lamps with the planet, the oceans and continents, but I know that we love these lampposts very much), in this country that looks at the West, always thinking of leaving, to see the world, who knows who is left behind, who has learned to silence the words of love, knowing that they exist, in black blue, in the deep sea, knowing that they exist in various colors, on earth, like all the things that exist, on earth and at sea; knowing that they are too impossible to grasp, to bring them here and write them in a letter to you.
As the poet says, it's ridiculous to write love letters. Why, if the sea is big and salty and you're always on the other side?
But it comes anyway. If you come, come like the one I expect. I expect you without faith, of course. Just so you know. I hope you're hopeless.
But it comes, like the sun on the ice from the leaks.
Nope. Stop. Be quiet. In this land, everything must have a certain distance, to be true, or deep. Sit here next to me. We tied our hands knowing that if we wanted to, we could unwrap them. Don't hold hands with me. It falls on me. Beast, rain. Take me to your shell at the bottom of the sea. There are no wings here. You can't fly. Here the abyss is shallow. Here we stamp right on the floor. Oh my love! This is a Portuguese movie! Nothing here is cinema!
So let yourself be where you are, in another country, while I write you love letters, ridiculous, for of course, as are all letters that are love.
Three-handed poem (languages)
I hope you'll come to me.
And tell me the wait has ended.
I know you came and I could see
Who was waiting on this street
It wasn't the one that was supposed to be yours.
Did you change your being, or did you change your door?
Would the lock be crooked?
No plumb cord,
The soul changes course.
No tuned rhythm,
The voice doesn't sing that fado...
The gift of the company of being
It's for those who know how to live...
Not for those who wish impossible
Unspeakable entanglements.
For who everything is doesn't have
This inside that keeps
The unique being cut out
In this space designed.
For the afternoons you wait all afternoon,
Con las bros en las rejas
That surrounds mi cárcel de esperanzas.
Tus pies senti en el camino,
Pero cuando miré vi el destino
Don't be so mean.
You fell from the other side,
Yo me quedé en mi surrounded,
Dibujo de libertad,
Sabindo en el corazón la verdad:
Sin acuerdo ni guión,
We're cojos sin bordón,
Hasta that Dios cut the hilo
From this life extraña y sin filo.
For many days and nights, I waited for your song,
For many seasons I sang out all all allone.
But then I hear a whispering of you
Calling out my name from a burning flame.
Soon I knew your song wouldn’t do
To make my heart enough for two.
So I sing unaided for some more seasons,
Not waiting for anything but the reasons,
The very nature of flesh and bone,Where we are born and die alone,
Eyes torn
I saw your eyes, girl.
♪ Nailed on a black asphalt ♪
Stopping possibilities of making dreams the real horse where we ride
– Black steed, no path
No rent
No stop spaces.
No hope.
Bail,
Wishes for another romage.
I saw your eyes, girl.
We ended up riding the horse and that's it!
We cry what we have to cry
On the black back of the steed of pain,
We sing what we have to sing
On the walking back of the steed of joy,
We arrest what holds us
On the ribbons of the love steed...
We wait for what we expect
On the winged back of the steed of hope,
We grab, when we grab,
The strong back of a stubborn horse.
We ended up going where we never dreamed.
We didn't even get off a dream horse.
There's little use in reins when the prisoner is us...
There's no use in reins when the horse is us
And rare are the times we'd bet on our horse.
Teared into rivers, I saw your eyes girl...
I dreamed that they had turned tears into the blue asphalt of the sky, like a river that mirrors.
Your eyes have the memory of a horse without a rein that lay its feet on the earth,
Your eyes have the memory of a steed that ran under the sun,
Your eyes have the memory of an angel of fire
Who comes to dry the fountains of your eyes tears...
Your eyes have the memory of a smiling look.
In your mouth is the hope,
The ever-held hope of making this happen another to come.
Must be water, must be rain, full,
Must be river or must be sea...
Tie me to you with your eyes, grab this string of loose ribbons, attach them to the ribbons of your hair
And come with me.
With me I like to go alone
With me being a prisoner, anyway,
With me that I have a weak horse,
With me that I don't have many seats,
But come on.
Anyway, come...
Don't stand there in the middle of the road
Crying for what we don't have,
For what we will never have,
For what we never dreamed of.
1998
Cold sun
Feigned, rough, torrid or rude
You came at me on a bad afternoon,
That I still hope to change
The being here dreaming
This hot fake sun,
The being here waiting
What the heart doesn't even feel
Doesn't change the torrid hour
In which I desired it,
But it takes so long
This sun will not be king.
Fake, feigned late, when I crowned him.
2001 or 2000
To the open field
To the open field
In healthy light
♪ High night awake ♪
I dream of the day
The day of work
The day of sweat
The day of exhaustion
The day without love
The day of knocking
The day of battle
The day of war,
Which we always do,
The day of screaming
Voting Day
The Day of Choosing
The day that always comes,
Very loud and clear and right,
The day of suffering.
I know the day
It's just some day
And he's the only one to live.
Blessed is the day
Where I'm so lost
Shut up in the street
That I'm not beaten
That the war continues
Out and inside me...
To the open field
In healthy light
♪ High night awake ♪
I dream of the day
Where I was free,
Loan of credit,
Loan release,
Bank free
From the garden of disenchantment.
Nightmare of the Ant on TV
Sono, um grande sono, vagas de sono… O lápis partido caiu da secretária. A professora da pele sarnenta tomava café. Os garotos zumbiam em torno da impossibilidade de construir algo… algo longe do caminho de lama que ia dar à escola. Esgaravatavam minhocas e atiravam à menina, ao passar. As minhocas cheias de terra choviam no inferno… febre… uma noite de febre.. mãe… o cobertor esmaga-me, é impossível, é tudo impossível… esmagada… deliro com coisas que ganham dimensões de assombro, mas isso é ainda dizer pouco. É um sonho a preto e branco, acordada e a dormir, com um formigueiro como o da televisão, quando não dá. Os cardos agarram-se às meias de renda, a sépia, e é tudo impossível… impossível… mas não é bem isso. É esmagador, mas é mais do que isso… acordar, é preciso acordar… febre, o caminho da escola, coberto de lama, com cães selvagens sempre em torno… veio um senhor, tirar fotografias… filmou muito bem e nem disse nada. Era preciso levar musgo, esqueci-me do musgo… era antes do Natal, queriam fazer muita coisa e construir muita paz, mas a lama subia para cima das minhas queridas galochas verdes e perdi o musgo todo no caminho… no fim do caminho a casa quadrada branca, fria. Não quero ir! Os deveres, o inferno dos deveres… rezei ao menino Jesus para que aparecessem feitos… as contas de dividir, infindáveis, intermináveis… ajuda pai… demasiado impossível… o frio… os cães… sempre cães, por todo o lado… tive que fugir pelas vinhas, subir a encosta… sonho, cubro a realidade com um lençol de veludo. Toda a beleza me entra pelos olhos e faço da sensação um misterioso lugar encantado onde existe tudo o que existe, mas não é igual… acordo. É preciso acordar para ir à escola. A avó faz ondinhas com o pente e a água e um arrepio de prazer desce pela espinha. É preciso ir, caminhar, ficar sentada, fazer contas, aprender as letras, participar nas músicas, estar com os outros, ficar perto das pessoas e dos cães… a lama congelada não suja as botas… a lama congelada vai dar à escola, onde… raiva… tenho de ir. Vou, mas fico. Fico sempre, entre o terror e a realidade, entre o sonho e o existente, entre a beleza e todas as outras pessoas e os cães… Venham aqui. Tirem fotos. Sou uma índia que veio de um mundo além, povoado de falhas que me fazem cair neste… Não sei o que estou aqui a fazer, mas querem que aprenda a escrever e fazer contas, de dividir, intermináveis, só de dividir, não de multiplicar, nem de somar… subtraio todo o trabalho que posso… dou a volta ao quadrado e fico no mesmo lugar, apanho uma coisa daqui e dali, mas aprendo mal e pouco. Uma atrasada… atrasada mental… um índio dividido por tudo o que acontece, infinitamente, até ao infinito, impossivelmente, esmagadoramente…. Aqui.
I haven't slept since when I have a fever. In a state of vigil the velvet blanket was broken, the screen where it projected in the future what should be the present. The gift is. I keep going round and round. I've come across all the science, I've wanted to find out so much... I'm sleepy, because I take things to sleep. So I sleep and I don't know if I'm crazy, I wake up and go. If you ask me to make a wish, I don't know what I'd ask...
I'll be haunting walls this cold spring, exposed to the torture of time and humans... April 25th will be Freedom Day, but why did he die? Freedom is dead. All you have to do is bury her deep. Hope lasted two days... we have the freedom of the vagabonds, freedom of the gypsies, freedom without hot water shower, freedom without library, freedom among the rats, freedom in monuments where c... the doves ; the 25th of April trapped in statues, the camouflage of the thong, the old of the crosses, the old fanned fighters of the dead impero, the freedom to put Salazar to f... like a dog, freedom...
I wrote many more on the edges of the notes, but I don't know what happened to them. Youth is prolific In many things and mine was especially prolific in things that do not pay bills.
All my writing is crossed by quotations or comments from great Portuguese poets, simply because before writing poems I had the addiction to decorate those I loved most, and there were many.
I should have decorated the material and paid attention in math classes, the only ones where a teacher is needed. It is also certain that I did not have them, or because the teacher was not, or because I was not present in body and spirit.
I never wanted to be a poet. I wanted to see behind the cloth. Perhaps, perhaps, poetry (not mine, that of the great poets) is also a way of seeing beyond the cloth. I don't know. For my part, no matter how gleaming the surface of reality I have never found evidence of a sense,
