Requiem (13-09-2007)

Save me!
You say, lying on that cold bed.
At first, you beg me.
Afterwards, as the knife reaches your chest,
You order me: save me!
They cut you. The incision is small,
but the wound on you pride is much bigger.
Like that, exposed to the world, you’re weak
and asking for salvation.
I don’t resist, I squeeze your hand and kiss your sweated forehead.

Everything was over soon. And I hear your whisper:
Thank you, Orlando, for saving me.

Naked Truths

NAKED TRUTHS (31-07-2007)

Everything comes up. You can fight it but, even if it is irrelevant in the time in which it’s found, the truth always appears. That’s why there are no secrets. There are no secrets from me to you. There are mysteries, yes, but not secrets. I might not know your core, but I know who you are, I know the smell of your essence. Just like you know me in body, but not in soul.

I fight to show you

A bigger part of me.

Let you finally see

My true self.

It may be hard but I won’t quit, because I know you’ll find me.

Without inspiration

It's true, it happens. And now it happened to me. You cannot force something that should flow naturally from the mind to the hand, from the hand to the pencil, from pencil to the paper.

Therefore, I am only going to make new additions to this blog when I have something new to say.

Society (26-07-2007)

To be alone.
What does it mean?
Does it have a meaning?
No.
No, we say.
We.
And the others?
We are not alone in the world.
And what about who is?
What it happens to them?
Nothing.
Nothing, we say.
Why would it happen?
In the end it only remains us.
And nothing happens.

Godot never comes.

The word (20-07-2007)

Agora, Maintenant,
Now, Astèr, Ahora.
They all describe the moment that doesn’t exist.
The Now is an illusion.
The Now is past.
Because it doesn’t exist, it becomes attractive and even mystical.
What is the Now?
The Now is a word.
More than a word,
the Now is the word.

The human god (20-07-2007)

You speak another language.
I fight to understand you
and to know you.
You have hope, I know.
But hope of becoming someone,
of loving someone.
Me, I have hope of becoming you,
of loving you.
You are almost superior, you look like a god
who has decided to live the life of a human.
You have philosophies and you think,
you sing about your understanding of the world.
I sing about you, about my desire to love you,
the human god!

I wish…

… I could be different. I think of myself as being as artistic person. It’s a characteristic of my personality that pleases me. But, if we look deep into it, what do I really do, artistic-wise?
I write a few poems, I start a few scripts. I like to write.
I’d like to know how to draw. To express my thoughts and feelings through a simple stroke of a pencil or brush of a paint. But I don’t know how to draw, I simply don’t have the talent.
I’d like to know how to sing. To have the voice to scream at the world everything that’s wrong with it. Having a voice to be heard. But, unfortunately, I’ve never trained my voice.
I’d like to know how to play an instrument. To have the most beautiful object in the world in my hands, ready to make Art and History with it. I didn’t care for it until it was almost too late.
Above everything, I’d like to know how to dance. I’d like to know how to manipulate my body to find my soul. To dance is to have a second life, to have a second chance to do everything we want
And I won’t stop to follow this dream until it comes true. Because it’s because we stay in the world of “I’d like to…” that we don’t do in life what we want.

So, I will act now and I will dance.

Son of the island

SON OF THE ISLAND (20/07/2007)

He who is born on the island is not her son.
He’s not her descendent.
He is the island.
He is the island herself, with all her mysteries,
beauty, smells and sentiments.
To be the son of the island is to bring her in the heart.
To be the son of the island is to stop being it to start being her.
The sons of the island become, eventually, the island.
And we, who are still her sons,
await our turn to be,
to become a green body, full of life.

The clouds and the butterflies

THE CLOUDS AND THE BUTTERFLIES

I don’t know who paints the clouds!
Is it a bird, Nature or an angel?
The clouds are so beautiful, mostly at sunset.
They become pink, as if they’re
in love with everybody and with me.
I don’t know who paints the butterflies!
Is it God who grabs them and paints them,
or a boy with his felt pens?
The butterflies are so beautiful!
With those colours they remind me of
the rainbow that gives me peace,
joy, and freedom!

Hi, dear readers!

I'm only going to translate the new part of my blog, because, let's face it, the other part isn't really worth translating.

Anyway, if you feel curiosity about some other post in the Portuguese version, be free to ask me and I'll translate it for you.

Peace!