(está) Perto

Não chores aos pés do leito onde morro

Se em Ser (eu fui) chama qu’enlutou

As luas se sucedem

E da Primavera de nascer o Outono ceifou

Ontem fui caule verdejante,

da brisa

Neste grão de areia dou minha folha ao Cais de beber

Se vou findar na praia

Podiam certas, as ondas, me vir empurrar

E arrasta-me, ò Dor do Tempo

Que só partindo Homem te vou perceber

As luas se sucedem

E lento, o compasso, não deixa de mim sair

Em despedir-me corto o fio da Laranja

Que foi o Sol onde ceguei

Da Luz em sangue concebida

Jorram mil perfumes

Do ventre onde, Encarnado, nasci

O solo me engole

Por murmúrios prantos que não sabem desfolhar

Mas antes se dissolvem

Quem chora, quem chora? Porquê preces tecer?

Os braços do amado onde ansiei terminar

Se arqueiam, quebrando ramos

E já mais não tenho repulsa em arrefecer...

Se a Terra sabe Amar (e a Mar)

A maresia que provo não me é estranha

O fim é, sobremaneira, Salgado

E, morrendo, escorro para o Sul

Em finando me devolvo

Trespassando atavismos

A quem, de mim, se fizer

O féretro não guarda memória,

De madrugada doença pareceu se esquecer

Que é salubre a vida

Em ciclos e fins do princípio viver.

Today

There lie secrets

And spaces

And sorrowing graces

inside.

And people,

They seem to rely on the apparent image of perfection; on the picture-perfect photogenic smile, that we are so obviously forced into

Posing.

Why?

Do my questions remain unanswered if all I do is ask the nude-eyed, blunt and clear as the day Truth?

(that is, if the days are ever clear and there are no multiple facets to the pristine lazurite coming between me and you).

Don’t let me go, please

If all I do is try to mend the broken pieces of your heart

that is altogether my

And keep my own of getting broken

Even if that is a totally misleading endeavour, and I am to be stuck with a sunken cost…

I fall and catch the repetitive tone of cliché, hovering around the living room (where you stand and SHRINK down to the final round, when eventually you’re caught and slashed to bits by it) and I hate sensing you, drowning by the trivial traits that outline our pending conversation

So, hush.

and let me take you through this journey that will be led in the dark, and in silence, and in mutual comprehension.

Why did you have to go… Why do I have to stay…

Why don’t I understand you and your frustrating rhetorical monologues

And why do I know you so well I don’t need words to put the way things are.

I love you entirely,

And I cannot part from your living memory, and move on.

I don’t want to, either.

And you saved me without even knowing

Although… my redeeming cure, nowadays, only seems to pull me down and keep me trapped to old prejudices… that keep me blinded and cold.

Sábado arrumo a casa

Sábado arrumo a casa

Que o sótão onde eu durmo mais não faz sentido.

Sábado arrumo a casa

Hoje é sexta-feira, e não te tenho em meus braços.

E hoje é o amanhã que adormeceu sem esperança

…e se esqueceu de acordar

(num sopro)

E quem precisa de versos se onde eu moro há Música

e sons infinitos, e clamores tão altos que só precisam do cair baixinho da chuva para serem ouvidos...

Sábado arrumo a casa

Que hoje é sexta-feira de madrugada.

E já faz mais de um segundo sem mais não te ver.

(e é Quinta, e é Quinta...

a quinta dos meus regaços escondidos,

onde semeio a vida e ofereço pasto à minha imaginação.)

It is

easier to cry and mourn a triviality than to stand tall and…

face your own mistakes.

live up to the consequences of your own actions

and simply realize that nothing you can do will ever change the fact that what you’ve done has caused irreparable damage to others.

It is.

Il y a

des raisons qui se surpassent, à maintes reprises.

Ne m'attendez pas, en vain...

Precisava mesmo de dizer isto

I'm not used to doing this kind of thing.

Writing plainly and without set purpose or edition seems both dull and fruitless.

But somehow, inside me, a metastatic urge to write has emerged. And grown.

And filtered my existence with words and dots and question marks and a bunch of orthographic an syllabic mumbo-jumbo altogether far too complicated and long to describe...

I miss you. I love you. But I will let go.

(and somehow, from the start of this all I knew it was the only way)

I was foolish...

When trying to conceal my sorrow with shallow interests and occupations, and numb my mind with restless sound and noise that only seemed to make me go

But now it's not like that anymore.

[hush, there enters another actor on the scene. And you stay back... and I'm sorry you'll disappear - I know that you will - but he doesn't even cast a shadow on your beautiful, epic pale figure, hovering magically by the side and gazing confidently to empower my anemic state of mind]

Why??

I was feeling so fine with my forced addiction

That I almost could linger on the feeling of never being able to find another you, in between rushes of drug through my veins...

I WAS SO HAPPY! I was so joyfully vain

I was so mercifully sin-free and light headed that it almost sickens me the disruption of my simple, insane and perfectly superficial nuissance d'être

(so, why did you have to come and wreck all of this with your systematic punctuation and wonderfully pitched voice and british humor and elegant walk, and moody days that evolve into beautiful, clear, cold, pristine confessional nights while smoking cigarettes and telling tales...).

I love our telekinetic introspections. I love the fact that I don't need to explain myself, but when I do you get everything so fully right I want to cry.

I love that you are my shadowy best friend.

I love that you are my lost brother

And my parallel

And my soul mate

And the only person in the World that can make me gasp with overflowing sensitivity, comprehension and concomitant immense knowledge.

But I hate your similarities with my vague, lost reflexion,

and I do hate your empathic psychoanalysis

and I hate your half-words (that I also love - the half that you keep to yourself)

AND I HATE NOT MAKING SENSE WHEN I THINK OF YOU!

I hate falling down and throwing the lunch tray down when I sense his breathing and that I only feel safe and reassured when you come and lend me a hand.

And I LOVE your mockery! And your enthusiasm, and your pain...

Does this mean I love you?

Not at all. It is too soon to say...

But I won't forget the other two others I left behind, one in a different life

The other perhaps across the ocean.

One is dead;

the other has never been so alive.

I am happy amidst my grazing and ever-appealing dark side...

And I do have love.

That's for sure!