The chair pressed my sides,
Its arms drilling into me saying,
you shouldn’t be here.
This chair, when void of unwanted girth, only sits the usual and the sane,
Not freaks of flesh.
I screw myself out of the esplanade seat,
where all sit drinking and eating guiltlessly,
and I think:
I do not belong here,
I’m too fat and self-obsessed to exist between sundecks and sunscreens.
Summer, sunlight and sunshine all ask to for their lithe and golden sons,
Not the trudging obese.
I should be ashamed,
…and I am.
I waddle away, my ass a pendulum, ticking away my escape from this sun dappled scene.
As I depart a warm breeze shoots through the street,
a tepid rush of air raises the leaves, rustles the branches and washes over me.
The air strokes my neck and shoulders,
blowing softly through my shirt,
and embracing me like a playful lover.
I feel myself standing to attention,
and walking a little straighter …
a little prouder.
Let us go forth,
into this new day.
Let us sail
unafraid and undaunted
to new beginnings.
Morning beckons a fresh light.
New, clean unbroken,
radiant and beaming.
Gleaming and pure,
full of rage, fire and movement.
But Dawn calls out for its kin,
the young and the naked,
not the old and the weathered.
I was skinned and stoned,
so many times,
by choice and chance,
that I’m known only by my scars
bruises, aches and the longing for deeds not done.
Before me I see the New Dance,
Taught to the new and hidden from the old.
Living is made of the anger, pain and cum of the newly born.
All the rest is not of this world.
The present is Time’s gift to youth,
showering it with now and,
promising it a future.
For them alone,
I have wore out my welcome,
the Stream runs with the blood of others,
but still I live...
surely not by Nature’s wish,
it’s lustful drunkenness for childhood,
and its never ending begetting of youth,
are boons that are bestowed to those shorter in years.
And certainly not for
and all other icy comforts of aging.
I live bereft of reasons to be.
The Gods don't need me anymore,
Aging set me free from purpose and destiny.
So I am,
-It will come,
He said, sipping his beer and fumbling for the lighter.
I listened to every other word,
hoping that was enough,
-This thing that’s happening in Tahrir Square. It’ll come here,
To the south first then to the North,
Maybe not as dramatic as in Egypt, but it’ll come.
we both have regimes that no one believes anymore,
elites that represent only themselves …
these things are infectious,
Said my father,
blowing cigarette smoke through his nose and looking me in the eyes,
forcing me into attention.
I grunted my accord and looked at my glass,
feeling cheated of the contemplative beer buzz,
Not really sure of what to say,
I said what I was thinking:
-Better late than never, I suppose.
-Yes, this place needs a cleaning …
Off course here it wont be so … revolutionary.
The EU won’t let it go so far,
but people will fill the squares very soon.
-Like what, four, five years?
-No! A year … maybe less.
My father looked intently to his cigarette.
Waiting for me to say something.
I zoned out as I felt the conversation taking a turn to the improbable.
Off course there’s reasons for people to be fucked with politics, politicians and government,
but we have years of rot before we see people on the streets.
This is Portugal,
we’re all beyond indignation and certainly over protestation.
I looked at my father, encouraging him to talk some more,
and ask me nothing.
I looked over the roofs of downtown Lisboa that,
4 months from then,
would see camped protesters on Rossio Square.
A five minutes walk from my house.
All this things that I chose to believe were in a manageable future,
are already here.
On this particular grey Saturday afternoon,
during a boozy lunch in my house,
I was warned of the times that were coming.
Saintliness is a form of attention. I heard said once.
The future stains the horizon.
Not a time for plans and projects,
dreams and wanting.
But the moment where all present movement will end,
and go no further.
Hope was jettisoned to the sea, to keep the raft of the tomorrow afloat.
Not for lack of dreaming,
not for lack of wanting something different,
but because becoming is so pregnant with the unstoppable flow of yesterday,
tomorrow will only fit its end.
A future as the answer to the equation of the present,
its propositions explained,
its terms understood,
all its possibilities made fact,
This sea of becoming is not ours to command,
only to sail,
on the edge of sinking,
the waves of causation,
in the hope of being delivered,
trembling but alive.
to the future that’ll belong to no man,
only to time that devours time,
for no other reason that, that, is its nature.
And if the future won’t suit us,
and it won’t,
we must take solace in the knowledge that,
whatever tomorrow may be,
it wont be our fault.
As progress liberated us from all languages of understanding,
we were brought forth to watch,
on the best seats of the house,
the spectacle of humanity moving without reasons to explain it.
For the first time in a long time,
we saw the effervescence of Men with the same eyes that follow the bustle of ants.
now that we know that there’s no will guiding it,
Maybe it was always like this,
Maybe we just didn’t knew it.
Maybe there’s nothing new in this flux that we witness.
But now we know it doesn’t need us,
that we’re not needed to decide our end.
This is the true end of history,
when we avert our eyes from the deeds of men,
to watch only its moving,
forever void of direction.
Trapped in the eternal present,
We see ourselves through the eyes of the Gods.
My building is made of flaws and asymmetry.
is a place of impossible angles and fortuitous stairs.
Time, need and chance are its bricks and mortar,
contingency and happenstance were its architects.
And there it stands,
With the understated confidence of the things who need no reason to exist.
Unencumbered with purpose,
Free from design,
as a creation of passing time.
In it dwell several families of variable geometries,
countries and pigmentations,
who pray, (or not),
to different gods,
listen to their own music,
and have jobs that the others ignore,
speaking all languages,
eating all foods,
teaching their children to be good in different ways.
My building is multicultural,
much more than tolerant,
it is accepting.
We accept that,
some of us,
will leave garbage on the stairs,
that the women will clean it,
That we’ll greet each other on our respective languages,
That our affairs are our own,
and that at night there'll be silence,
because we all have children who need to sleep.
My building is in the wrong side of town.
The natives are poor, belligerent,
and live a life of drug dealing and petty crime.
This is viewed as local folklore by everyone.
They are the new iteration of the Third State,
a class of european have-not’s, that shape their worldview through the lens of a 50 Cent video.
Here, they emulate the ethos of the American ghetto and its caricature of achievement and respect.
But enough on the natives.
Lets talk of the foreigners that are so many that the neighbourhood has their name,
Mouraria its called.
Since the middle ages that is a unsavory and unregarded place inside the city.
In the beginning was a ghetto for the Moors,
and now its the same for the poor.
It’s funny how,
although, through time, we picked different outsiders,
we always put them in the same place.
Mouraria is known by their Chinese,
Africans, (not the ones from the ex-colonies. The real foreigners),
and a unsavoury brand of Portuguese that it sires much to the disgust of all others.
They lay about street corners,
stealing on occasion,
working when needed,
talking about football, fights and more football.
Huddling near the stores of the Pakistanis and Indians,
drinking beer and discussing the art of car tuning.
The Chinese stores await customers with belligerent efficiency,
The Ukrainian supermarket are open for business,
The African hairdressers blare out music calling their clientelle,
several Internet stores are there to link Asia with Portugal,
and the Brazilian and Chinese loaders take bales of goods to the stores as they chain-smoke and talk to each other.
In the middle of all this move Portuguese old ladies,
slowly intent in reaching the Portuguese bakery, where they’ll buy bread in the morning as it'll close in the afternoon.
The natives see all this from the walls they lean against all day...
seeming vaguely bemused by all the bustle that doesn’t concern them.
Intent only on the cars that stop in front of them, and screech away guiltily.
Only the foreigners seem to have a goal and a reason to exist,
all the rest just seem to … be.
Maybe that’s the privilege of living in your own land,
the only place where you can be, without justification...
you realize that is not Portugal that is only fog...
It's the Portuguese.
As days go by...
As days go by, I,
and all the others,
grow increasingly distant from the world.
As I grow older,
day by day,
things around me seem less clear than their image inside.
Which is not an image,
or a representation,
but a foggy, cursory feeling of something else,
something simpler yet darker,
clearer but evanescent.
The blueprint of reality, seen fleetingly through closed closed doors, eyes and hearts.
and all the rest,
learn our part in the world by rote … but not by heart.
Knowing it so well that it is now,
all tropism and inertia.
A fluid give and take of forces and masses that determine a psychology best described by the equations of physics.
The Outside is left to its own devices. A garden of powers engendered by complexity and the will of the young,
not summoned to inspect this strange vision,
begotten by action and living,
and existing as something else entirely.
And as time passes I,
and everyone else,
feel this inner truth to be a little clearer, and the Outside,
a little distant,
a little dimmer,
Increasingly foreign and threatening.
This is called growing old.
This small nugget of knowing that we believe we glimpsed is evermore enticing.
distant of words and wary of grammar,
it seems to stand still if looked from the corner of your eye,
but if you try to stare at it …
it’s not there anymore.
as time passes,
as it surely will.
This hunt becomes path, motion and goal for those who have more years than time.
Slowly the Outside gets evermore abstruse and incomprehensible,
full of change and movement caused by nothing and going nowhere.
as it gets increasingly difficult to understand,
we loose the words and refuse the meanings that perpetually mutate to survive.
For we haven't looked Outside for so long,
and retreated to the other truth that needs nothing but us.
This silent knowledge,
devoid of language and requiring only unerring attention,
grows to encompass all experience.
And when I,
and all of you,
have become nothing but watchers of a truth that requires no dialectic,
there’ll be no need for words,
for duality …
and for watchers.
For a watcher that has no Outside watches nothing, and cannot exist.
Then I’ll die,
and disappear to the place where there’s no more Truth or Reason.
And these words will have meant nothing.
Morning looms strange by the window.
As I touched my daughter's hands,
small, clean and uncreased,
I heard a voice:
"Life is the elegance of leaving."
I held her tight,
and thought of all the time I won't have with her.
When I close my eyes I see a desert.
The, long, brown, infinity that stretches from the mountains to the sea.
Leaving everything in between dead, and indifferent to its embrace.
A space of immobility where movement is Wind.
Hard and soft....
Subtle and strong...
Northward and southward,
Hither and thither.
Striping the structure out of the desert.
The only truth the wind.
And the wind is the desert.
And the desert is ...
The desert as the end of wanting.
The last mille of hope in the road to despair.
Where the Saviour goes to die.
This is the place were everything stops, and is moved by chance.
The place of the prime movement
When I close my eyes I see a desert,
Beneath me, and in front of me.
In space in now, in time in here.
Southward on the other side of the sea,
in the other side of the ocean.
The desert that was then when we started.
When Europa made its first tentative steps to Itself.
A desert not as a desert but as a barren place;
A place where to be free.
In the Future,
The Peninsula will be a undulating vastness of naught.
Rocks and sand where once stood the cities of today,
Ruins of fountains, pools and waters mirrors,
Incomprehensible artefacts of a past best forgotten.
Scurrying nimbly through the desert,
Our children’s children.
Traped in a culture too slow to move with time.
Still believing themselves Empire,
all made of sand.
Late in the day,
In a day dead and done,
The day before now,
It’s hours frozen by time,
For it’s yesterday.
Final and frail as porcelain dolls.
These are the days that you’re given.
Existing because time is locked in yesterday.
Yesterday where knowledge goes to die.
A land of reason and language,
The last sarcophagi of living and a prison.
It’s in this tomb of being that I see the desert,
Southward and in the desert.
A premonition of nothing,
A call to arms
And words to the wise
The sky seems to get a little bit higher,
Going upwards and upwards,
Escaping us in a hurry.
Fleeing a place promised to anathema.
Knowing something we don’t.
The rain is evermore scarce,
The forests crackle dry and burn in winter.
The rivers turn into torrents of mud.
Crocodiles hunt in the mountains
And bears fish by the sea shore.
The climate is changing and we seem to stand still.
As the oceans flood the lands
And the desert gobbles up forests.
Rain now only a wet remembrance of days gone by
An enormous sadness for the watery world we left behind,
Fills the air under a indifferent sky.
Growing evermore remote.
Scientists say it’s not going to rain anymore.
That we shouldn’t count on our crops,
Rain buried in the dust that becomes wind,
Flying through the ocean to the,
Sand as the seed of the future.
Feeding on each other,
And turning the Mediterranean a salty oasis.
Scientists say our land is dying and that we should move away,
To a land that’ll keep us...
But I ... I’m not a scientist,
So I’ll think I stay.
And as I prepare to wait I ask myself,
Will the desert bring its own religion
Will this be the final death of the Green Man ?
The Green Man survived the cross,
Will he survive the death of the woods?
Will the sand bring forth Mahomet or will this be Christ greatest triumph?
A son of the desert,
In the end,
This will be the final moment in a 2000 year old changing of the guard.
Perhaps Mahomet and Christ are not all that different,
Both are sons of the desert and grew feeding on the spirits of the wind,
The tree spirits mortal enemies.
Or maybe something new will appear,
A culling of all this deities, places and times.
A crucible to bring forth a new and happy science,
This is not a place of beginnings but of endings.
A place best understood by the old at heart,
The cautious and suspicious mood of age best suits this changing mores.
And the old,
Out of habit and out of fear,
Look to the past for answers.
To the house of porcelain dolls of intelligence and discourse.
But not even time past can illuminate the sombre path that lies ahead.
Only looking long into the past,
Can we glimmer faintly to something akin.
Deep into the harbour of the first wanting,
can we find the face that suits these final features.
Europa’s long journey from the bogs of magic though the plains of philosophy and to the rarefied mountains of science
has brought to a place so bereft of everything else,
That only the first Gods
Who were not here and needed nothing,
Finally liberated from the shackles of religion,
The bonds of reason
The yoke of aesthetics
The burden of morality
We were delivered free
To the desert of our own creation.
And as form follow function
And matter follows spirit,
Our land becomes as inhabitable as our heads.
When I close my eyes I see a desert.
I move from the window where I stood,
And stagger into my darkened bedroom,
And lying on my bed,
Looking intently into the ceiling
I shed the first tears for the place where I’ll live,
Waiting its coming,
Have they taught you nothing?
All the prophets,
all the poets,
All of them.
Thousands of years of words, deeds and actions,
Have you not heard?
For what I’ve come to tell you is the summation of everything that was told before me.
At least everything true.
All truths, all science, all art, all philosophy,
All paths to freedom through knowledge,
come to this:
It’s not important.
You are not important,
Your family is not important,
Your friends are meaningless,
Society does not exist,
There is no “we”,
Bury the fiction of Nation,
Of good deeds and bad,
All of this is wrong, small and unimportant.
And it was this that they were telling you,
The prophets and poets and the others.
It was just this, they wanted you to know.
This is all you needed to know.
Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
For now you are free!
Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
For now you live in a brighter, better world!
All life, all of it,
in its complexity and abstruse variance,
is of no importance.
All has no meaning in this bigger picture will make our own,
For if it’s the result of evolving matter as say the scientists, what of it?
Theirs is but a small place in the universe,
But small, and of no consequence.
And if life is the gift from Gods, is this the bigger boon we can imagine?
So rejoice, rejoice!
You were set free from respect to life!
And what about friends and family,
And all the bonds of empathy that keep us together?
What of them?
Since Life failed us as an answer,
we could always take refuge on the certainty of love.
But we all know,
that this is not sure footing for the lovers of truth.
This is a marshy land, that shifts and moves ceaselessly.
Very beautiful and not to be trusted.
The answer is not love,
Nor is it all you need,
Because we need so much more.
For the Ghost of love no longer haunts you!
And the knowledge of all these things,
Brought together by reason, logic and intuition,
Is of no consequence even before its very eyes.
For its science itself that teaches us that what we know is but a speck in what there is to discover.
And that what we can imagine is like a haze covering what might be there.
When you look at a stone,
And imagine the millennia it witnessed:
Being on the bed of a lost sea,
Having risen to heights of mountains that disappeared,
watching dead animals howling at stars that
for so long
have changed their place in the skies…
To now be carried unaware in your hand,
with no inkling of itself,
deaf, dumb and blind.
This in each and every rock!
The burden of knowing was lifted from your shoulders!
And God in all this? Where to find him?
For this is a poem not about the death of God but of its awakening.
Not the God of the spiritual accountants they keep chained in Churches,
Not the personal God who has hygiene advices for you,
Not the God of everlasting love and goodness that sounds so human that we call him Father,
Creating sacred families of variable geometries,
And unfailing dysfunctionalitiy.
God is so,
Beyond the last frontier of imagination.
Making sure by its presence that our wildest dreams are nothing but small extensions of ourselves,
Not the yardstick with which to measure the Universe.
For God is far way!
Haven’t you learnt nothing?
From all the Poets, Philosophers and Prophets of the ages?
To think far and wide and deep,
so you can see how near and small and shallow you are?
This was all the knowledge you needed to live free from fear.
And even this,
Is not important.
These are the days of new beginnings,
and longing for the ones that are not our own anymore,
and wont be missed.
These are the days of change and reinvention,
Of dead structure withering as dead leaves,
Of looking ahead to nothing known,
And living in the maelstrom of becoming.
Where we are just movement,
Some call it decay,
We call it pain and confusion.
We call it, our lives.
These are the days of siren calls
Wailing their last warnings to deaf ears.
Everywhere we hear the Cassandra warning us about the demise of a life
That is already lost.
The death of the West,
Proclaimed for so long,
Is now an inexorable fact.
There are no ruins,
And there are no more men.
All the dreams are dead.
Sadder eyes and clearer heads are needed to live this becoming that engulfed us.
The past is no more a beacon,
As the future we’ve foreseen is no more there.
The plans of mice of men…
Are not plans but tropisms,
As men and mice are not agents but matter.
Nothing to do now but to contemplate the mill of history,
Grinding away at today
Replacing it with a future that will frighten us all,
the Changing of the Guard generation,
or won’t be any kind of future.
Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.
três garrafas levaram-me de uma ponta do fim de semana para a outra.
Do principio até ao fim.
do princípio do fim,
deste patamar de onde vejo a descida para onde vou e os sítios de onde estive…
olho para o futuro e para o passado como se fossem a mesma coisa.
como se fosse só tempo.
como se fosse uma linha … estendendo-se para um lado e o outro, infinitamente…
Tempo como o espaço de agora que vê esta enorme e informe extensão de existir.
E para esta enormidade só tenho garrafas e o tempo de as beber…
como o relógio de quem deixou tudo para atrás.
Tempo medido copo a copo, onde a seta do tempo se confundisse com a embriaguez, como se a entropia fosse uma enorme embriaguez, um esquecimento, e a segunda lei da termodinâmica apenas a incapacidade de nos lembrar de…
Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.
É a única verdade que tenho.
Não sei onde estou, o que faço e o que me é pedido…
sei como conto o seu passar…
Três garrafas fizeram este fim de semana.
Três garrafas fizeram o espaço onde fiz o que quis.
Ou onde me deixaram estar.
E aqui, onde me largaram para brincar no recreio durante 48 horas
(prometendo que me vinham buscar outra vez na segunda)
Fiquei mudo e quedo,
bruto e estúpido,
ausente de quereres
no silêncio desconfortável de estar comigo mesmo.
esperei três garrafas.
Duas de whisky e uma de vinho.
Á espera que Segunda chegasse e tudo fosse como dantes.
I’m an hostage of the east.
a prisoner to the never-ending plains of
and the long wars of the Persians.
A token of my father’s allegiance to Galerius of Babylon.
the Emperor has trapped me in my victories.
Shunning me, whilst drawing me near…
I fear for my life.
Death haunts me as an overfriendly ghost,
and the fear has made life more precious by the wanting..
as if it was made bigger by the terror that is Constantine in Galerius heart.
For when the Emperor fears you,
you are more than a man.
You’re a threat,
to the empire,
to the universe of appeased gods and functioning cities,
of paid taxes and tributes to the priests,
to the land of open roads and open markets…
of faces in coins known by all as their rulers.
A threat to
Poor, poor Galerius…
still bargaining with his little deities…
this should be said
all the small tokens that the small gods bestow on their servants.
Ruling his armies…
fighting the barbarians for glory,
and killing christians for pleasure…
believing its puny deities as the cause of his victories.
in his own mind
as it should be.
not for long.
For Galerius is, now, the bloated ruin of an Ilirian general,
of a men of honor,
Today he is but a Emperor,
and he denies himself to keep it so.
Yesterday I was victorious.
Yesterday I was the Man in the battlefield.
In the gruesome field of death I was alive,
as all died,
I was touched by the hand of Nike!
I was victorious.
The Emperor’s generals guided me to the thickest of the battle,
so the swords of the Persians would do what he feared to do himself.
I’ve survived this…
time and again…
I’ve been put to such tests that no man who was not one with destiny,
could have endured.
Three times I was ordered to die,
Three times I disobeyed it by being triumphant.
But I will not tempt the fates once more.
I am, at last,
alone with my fate
and my destiny is elsewhere…
in the land of believers,
God! I’m sick of
Away from this punctilious bearers of sacrifices,
and their obscene want for social order!
as if there was such a need in the mind of God.
As if their haggling deities could see through the thickness of their walled cities and the incense of their sycophantic priests.
Little gods for little men.
Not for me.
Not for me the error of the old ways.
These are the things no one would do,
that no one would want to do,
unless forced to by the stupidity of Galerius laws!
my father remembers him as good soldier and a plain soul.
This soldier sees the Empire as is own villa.
Ruling it with the blind insouciance of a paterfamilias.
Blind for he not sees it as a living breathing organism…
The Living Empire,
moving trough us and in the blood of many,
intent only in its own existence.
and Galerius does not belong to it any longer.
I am now.
the future of us all.
I ran into the heart of winter,
Deep into the naked trees,
into the blistering wind.
In search of the cleansing rain I went.
I rushed into the snow.
Into the snow icy core I plunged.
Inside the frozen plain.
Into the throbbing Soul I moved...
The Ice respired death all around…
Stopping the world,
In the shivering cold,
I sit down and,
For the first time I,
close my eyes
to never open them again
Came the ominous heat
I’ve known for so long.
The warm nothingness that was here from the start.
In the beginning of days;
A life-time of blind love to a hidden God...
Only seen through the dim glass of the Black Light
Shining in me and through me...
Like an unspeakable silence that can not be understood.
And, as I sat here,
To never rise again.
I wait most atently.
Not waiting for anything…
being wait in itself.
Available for all;
Frozen to the world and burning for the hand of God.
And the inky waters of Being start to move...
Like a tectonic revolution.
crushing everything in its path.
as I wait,
as I stop,
to never move again.
I pray to the God I don’t believe anymore.
To give me the strength,
and the fortitude.
to see the all consuming beauty,
Of the Black Light.
Stained clouds by the oily sludge of the night
mar the skyline who looms over the alley and dinner,
Bloody and delicious.
I watched as it moved one last time.
The moon cowered beneath the smog,
Neon sprayed light trough the dark recesses of the city…
Low, dwindling stars, illuminate a mankind that deserves no other light.
I lean against the wall, breathless and sated,
Casting my eyes to on high,
Searching for a God that has forsaken me.
Leaving me alone with the billboards of banks and travel agencies,
Sneakers and massage parlours,
Shoe stores and chemists…
Brightly coloured hues of dreaming, irradiating over the street.
Full of the night lights and city sounds…
Resting and digesting,
as if the corpse before me was not my doing.
As if no one would,
As if I could rest …
The food stopped moving long ago.
An empty dish for a vacant meal.
The thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of the kill,
All so quick, so good and so sudden.
I get up and get ready to leave,
Button up my coat and leave this happy place of feeding.
Strangely nostalgic for this now that is ended.
The cold wind sharpens my pace as I look for the train station.
Hungry to be elsewhere.
Away from this geometric unwelcoming town.
Eager, so eager,
To get home.
Away from all the animals that roam these streets.
No sun has come undone,
As no moon was found unclean.
Under the watchful eye of Being.
No God was found wanting,
No Spirits questioned…
Nor was the sea too shallow,
Nor the desert too dry.
No deed of beast was too base,
No will of rock too hard,
Compared to the inexorability of the judgement passed to Man.
For, the scrape of Light ,
(that will let him live a little longer, so he can die a little later),
is hard and elusive to get…
as if it was a prize,
as if it was good…
A bounty for the worthy!
Not the least of our expectations.
It’s to this sad feast that we gather in the millions;
Like mongrels too stupid to see the difference between the carrot and the stick…
Biting everything and each other,
beneath the discouraging soul-gluttony of the Lord.
For this, and more I ask you…
His not Man’s lot
A cast lot?
Is not is his destiny an answerable riddle?
Were we not singled forth?
Is not our being darker than death?
Is not our dying clearer than living?
Are not these the voices of reason?
And to answer these questions…
Only blind hate against the living,
And a strong mistrust towards the dead.
This self righteous anger,
Speaks in the ever expanding riddles of science,
Drowning in the flood of the senses,
broken and confused…
cumbersome before the incumbent task.
Sense and Knowledge one,
before the ever thinning twine of unknowing.
Trying to remember the Word before Self came in.
Hoje começa devagar.
Tímido da noite de ontem e tropeçando nos amanhas que não cantam...
Tristes e silentes.
Mudos com o sal das lágrimas que não correram.
Falam dos amanheceres atros e vagos do futuro,
Dos acordares ignotos e perigosos.
Do dia de amanhã que não conheço.
E portanto estou,
Entre há bocado e agora,
Neste quase nada a que chamam presente,
Onde eu devia estar e sentir-me e precisar-me
onde não me encontro no presente dos outros.
porque a unica verdade de mim,
É um ponto questionante.