História do Mar e da Ria.

Todos os dias, João se levantava, sem erro e exactamente, às cinco e um quarto da manhã. A cada dia, levantava-se e repetia, ao mínimo detalhe, o mesmo gesto. Olhava suas mãos, cansadas, preenchidas de pequenas marcas que indicavam o seu longo acumular de experiência. Olhava-as, cansado, tomava um banho frio, e vestia os seus calções, uma simples camisola de algodão, e por cima desta, um casaco de ganga, para evitar a nortada. Beijava sua mulher, que àquela hora, sempre dormia. Ao sentir seu ínfimo toque, estremecia ligeiramente e isso bastava para que João esboçasse um custoso sorriso. Fechava a porta da sua minúscula casa, sem olhar para trás, e descia as longas escadas. Levava consigo, no seu cesto de vime, a comida que melhor lhe iria permitir suportar o longo dia, e na sua canastra, as esperanças de um bom dia, na marinha. Consigo também, a sua motocicleta, companheira de longas horas, que o conduzia, desde a aldeia, longe da ria, longe do mar, longe de tudo, até à marinha, onde seus companheiros já o esperavam. Todos os dias, a partir das sete da manhã, os seus camaradas, três, e com ele próprio quatro, enfrentavam a marinha.

Naquele dia, seu último dia, João estava atrasado. Os seus camaradas esperavam-no para abrir o barraco, enquanto se perguntavam se o dia iria ser longo. “Conforme o trabalho que houver para fazer”, respondeu o mais velho dos marnotos. No dia anterior, a viva tinha inundado toda a marina, da água marulha, e com a pá cova, os quatro tinham retirado toda a lama e moliço, daquela suja água. João havia chegado entretanto, aberto o barroco, e estavam os quatro, então, prontos para começar verdadeiramente o trabalho. Apanhavam o sal, que boiava no cimo da água, de mãos desnudas, secas dos longos anos de ofício e iam colocando-o, dentro das canastras. Passavam-se sempre assim duas ou mais horas e era agora a vez de, com a razoila, rer o sal até à hora de almoço. Os estômagos, por aquela altura, naquele e em todos os outros dias, já esmolavam alimento. Mas João e seus companheiros resistiam, nobremente, e por mais que a razoila lhes pesasse nas mãos e nos braços exangues, o trabalho precisava de ser feito, e nenhum queixume o ia mudar. Assim continuaram, enquanto João os tentava animar, “Vamos lá, daqui a pouco já comemos o bom do bacalhau. Até vai saber melhor, aqui e com o estômago vazio.” Passado algum tempo, João chamou-os para perto do barraco, e estes sentaram-se, à volta da mesa de madeira, que ficava guardada, religiosamente, dentro do barraco. João anunciou o que todos já sabiam. “Camaradas, como sabem, hoje despeço-me de vocês. Foi um prazer. De vocês, levo bons momentos e daqui, desta marina, das longas horas, do vento que esfria os ossos, da água que nos seca a pele e o corpo, as mãos mais cansadas.” Riram-se tristes, enquanto ensopavam a broa na sopa, e brindaram, por cima de toda a fadiga e da rotineira conversa, com vinho tinto. O almoço estendeu-se um pouco mais do que o habitual, mas até isso João, para todos os efeitos “chefe”, da marina, perdoou. Era altura, agora, de bulir a água, e o sol, apesar do vento frio, estava lá bem no alto, amorenando a tez dos quatro. Enquanto os quatro conversavam, o tempo foi-se esvaindo. As cinco horas da tarde, o entardecer, o fim do dia afinal, rapidamente se aproximaram. Era hora de João sair. Sabia que saía com a canastra cheia, e com o coração, quiçá, algo mais vazio. Levantou-se, limpou as mãos, e abraçou os moços, dirigindo-lhes algumas palavras, de conforto e força. “Amigos, despeço-me. A todos, uns bons belos anos, aqui ou noutro sítio qualquer.” Pegou na motocicleta, equilibrou a canastra na parte traseira e partiu. O som do motor inundou os céus, e os colegas regressaram à labuta, dir-se-ia indiferentes.

Chuva lá fora.
Chuva cá dentro.
Onde estou eu
que nem em mim entro?

My MEU ( Model European Union) experience.

I confess. Being Portuguese and thus suffering of a severe case of chronic pessimism I wasn’t really expecting to be selected to MEU. When the news arrived I calmed myself down and embraced the challenge of being a Minister of one of the most powerful countries in the World – the United Kingdom.On the day of my flight I guess I felt a bit like Vasco da Gama and although I wasn’t “giving new worlds to the World” I had one other quintessential thing to discover - Europe, the future of us all. I arrived bubbling with excitement and anxious to know the city, the participants and their ideas.After two days of informal presentations and debates, we were at last in the Parliament. Everything everyone had been anxious for. We, the members of the Council, were conducted to a small room where we were to listen to the presentation of the first proposal, regarding the CO2 emissions in the Union and to state our position, which I and I think no one else had really prepared. And the same happened with the discussions and especially the voting on the amendments. Personally, I flip-flopped a lot, and had no real idea of what position I should adopt. At the end of the day, we passed only one amendment, and not even an important one, on the original proposal. I guess we really gave a bad name to International Politics, due to our inexperience and lack of judgment.But, no harm done, we proceed to the next proposal, already knowing that the CO2 proposal would be looked down by the Parliament, and finally proved that the Council could work as one and be effective. It was time to discuss the European elections and what could be done to fight the continuous low voter’s turnout. I and all my colleagues felt ready and acknowledging the reasons of our failure on the first proposal, put our hands and brains to work in order to find reasonable, effective and most of all attainable amendments. We rejected most of the Parliaments amendments for that same reason, and took advantage of our place in the Council. More time to speak for ourselves and also to listen, and as each represented only one country a less disparity of interests meant more ability to achieve our goals. We stroked a handful of amendments, having reached unanimity in almost all of them. With our part played, we just had to wait for the members of the Parliament to cast their vote.

Finally, the news arrived. We had achieved what no one had been able to achieve before. The European Election proposal was accepted by both the Council and the Parliament. That day, we left the Parliament with the feeling you get when you do something really well done and everything goes according to plan. I think some call it pride.


Curiosos? Aqui fica um vídeo-resumo( a organizadora pequenina à esquerda é Portuguesa, chama-se Inês Nascimento, estudou Línguas e Relações Internacionais na FLUP e merece o meu agradecimento. Kudos! para ela) :

Argentina's tango with whiteness and europeaness

When travelling abroad, one expects difference. How does it feel then, when one is confronted with Europeaness, so far away? And why? This article, about the problem of whiteness and the invisibility of blacks and indigenous populations, will be divided in two specific parts: a remembrance of my short trip to Argentina and, secondly, an investigation of what I could learn about Argentina's troubled racial relations.

This does not mean that I want to single out Argentina as a racist country. Instead I think of racism, as Teun van Dijk, as a “system of dominance, a systemic abuse of one group over another” and that “historically, this domination has been of the white Europeans over the peoples of Africa, Asia and Americas”. Argentina presents then an interesting and complex case, because it is, geographically, a Latin-American country with the “soul” of an European one: an apparent paradox?

First of all, I'm aware of the problems and complexities of my condition as a foreigner – Portuguese, white, male - writing about a specific country, even more of a completely different latitude and with an opposite history of colonisation. Again, I do not aim to single out Argentina as a “bad apple”. Most countries share similar policies and attitudes, including my own, where whites have benefited from white supremacy.

I aim instead to a reflexive recounting of my experience as a traveller there, reflecting on my previous notions of what meant to be “developed”, “organised” and “superior”. I had, I now realize, an Eurocentric notion of the world, where, even if I stem from a peripheral country in Europe, saw myself as superior to others. Of course I didn't think it or voice it as clearly as this! Nor were my ideas anything close to something close to social Darwinism or eugenics. But that is the root of the problem. Most whites and Europeans are able to walk around with an unchecked sense of privilege which derives from their “whiteness”.

But let's back it up. My colleague and I had been in São Paulo, Brazil for something close to 3 months when we took the trip. We were homesick and most of all uncomfortable with all the fuss of the big city, the “chaos” of São Paulo. When we arrived at Buenos Aires the architecture, the public transportation and the roads all welcomed us to “Europe”. I distinctively remember talking to my friend about how much Argentina resembled an “European” country and how much more at home we felt there. We even regretted, at the time, not choosing Argentina as the country to enjoy our scholarship. I was nowhere near to grasp the many ways in which the country and its elites have gone to make it a European white country. I also remember being completely clueless about race relations there, but realize now that blacks seemed to be nowhere to be seen. And this occurs, from what I learned, for many different reasons, past and present.

The article that brought my attention to this part of Argentina's history was Blackout's “How Argentina 'eliminated' Africans from its History and Conscience”. How can it be that a country that had, during slavery, a black population of around 30%, now has, according to the same article (and the CIA World Factbook), a 97% white population? The reasons vary and are both historical and ideological. The article points out, among others, the war against Paraguay, where blacks were the majority (also in others wars, such as the Civil War). Furthermore, surges of yellow fever and the gender gap between black women and men that led black women to marry white men are also presented as powerful reasons. However this is not the whole tale.

In Argentina, there was,  according to Arielle C. Knight, author of the thesis “'De Donde Sos?' The Impossible Union of Blackness and Argentinidad”, a official policy of 'blanqueaminto' (whitening) of the population,“in the principle of white supremacy” and blaming “those classed as Black and indigenous for the worsening state of the nation”. This policy and “strategy” led to the encouragement of European migration and explains, among many other things, why Argentina is known and reputed for its rugby team - a European sport - who finished, for example, fourth in the 2015 Rugby World Cup.

In fact, this “encouragement” was so strong that it has been written into the letter of the Argentinian constitution, where Article 25 explicitly states that: “[t]he Federal Government shall foster European immigration”. And let's not forget the indigenous populations also, who have been victims of military campaigns in the 18th century and policies of invisibilisation ever since.

Fast forward to the present. In an over recounted anecdote it is said that former Argentinian President Carlos Menem remarked, in a trip to the United States, that: “[b]lack people do not exist in Argentina, [it is] Brazil [that] has that problem”. As Miriam Gomes stated, in a BBC Mundo piece called “¿Hay negros en Argentina?”, “there's a double fallacy from the official (of the government): firstly saying that there are no blacks and more saying they are a problem!”.

But as with race itself, blacks do not exist in Argentina, because the majority of the population believes they don't exist. Or as Knight affirms “They do not exist because Argentines say that they don’t exist and have repeated this narrative for long enough that it has become true". Norman Whitten and Arlene Torres call this practice the 'rhetorical strategy of reification'”. Furthermore and still according to Knight, two practices make it harder for someone black to become “Argentinian”: children of Black immigrants never become Argentinian,  and they are seen as both a threat or something exotic, but always foreign. This is why Knight mentions the impossible union of blackness and "argentinidad".

Argentina still today seeks to be a “racially white, culturally European” country, which makes it impossible for indigenous or blacks to “fit in”. This is not unlike many other countries, including my own, where the official narrative may not be that “there are no blacks here”, but instead that they do not actually really belong here. In order to accomplish this, he history of many peoples who inhabited the country, including Arabs or Blacks, is erased. What is paradoxical is that the “Paris of America” and the whitest and most European country of Latin America is also the birthplace of tango, a dance with African roots. In the process of Europeanization, Argentina has physically and culturally erased and eliminated people who, it seems, “damage” this image. Argentina's tango is, however, far from finished.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin

Night Drive

The smell of ordinariness
Were new on the night drive through France:
Rain and hay and woods on the air
Made warm draughts in the open car.

Signposts whitened relentlessly.
Montreuil, Abbeville, Beauvais
Were promised, promised, came and went,
Each place granting its name’s fulfilment.

A combine groaning its way late
Bled seeds across its work-light.
A forest fire smoldered out.
One by one small cafés shut.

I thought of you continuously
A thousand miles south where Italy
Laid its loin to France on the darkened sphere.
Your ordinariness was renewed there.


Seamus Heaney

A tourist at the Rocinha (2010)

(O ritmo de posts é um por ano, nada mal. Obrigado Daniela pela foto, espero que não haja problema nesta utilização abusiva do teu copyright)

You sit on the back of the bike. The motoboy pulls you in a flash. You wake up and you're already at the top of the favela. After a crazy ride through trucks, vehicles, other motorbikes, holes on the ground and people moving around in their normal daily life you thank God and the driver and will probably want to kiss the floor for the safety it now provides. The motorcycle ride which starts at the lowest point of the favela takes only a few minutes to get you to the top. The motoboys service is also a normal mean of transportation for the habitants of the favela. The different colours in the jackets of the drivers show their diverse functions. 

The scenery at the top is horribly pretty. The mix of colours of the buildings – red, green, pink, yellow and, of course, the orange of the brick walls is astonishing.  The São Conrado neighbourhood just after, near the sea and the beach, offers yet another awful contrast, although both neighbourdhods co-exist peacefully. 

A guide in the narrow and garbage filled streets (if street is an appropriate name to small and growling narrower paths) is certainly useful. Coming down by foot is the goal and the best opportunity to know the lives of the persons living in this two-hundred thousand community, which began by chance.

During the decade of 20 of the last century, immigrants coming from the north-east of Brazil, mostly of rural origin, could not get a house in the best neighbourhoods of Rio de Janeiro, where they actually worked. Therefore they started to build houses made of wood at the Rocinha. This migration grew without any order or direction and now most of them live without proper sanitary system and deplorable health conditions. Electricity is provided by a private company but stolen by some, especially those living at the top where company workers can't so easily access and verify the wiring. Going down the paths and involuntarily peeking through each house it is not hard to notes the many HD screens, high-tech PCs and video game consoles which “inhabit” its interior – once again contrast is one of the key-words here.

As one barely even starts his tour it's not easy to escape a feeling of invasion of the “their” space. A tourist is not welcomed here, although tourism is one of the engines which moves the social projects being developed, such as a kindergarten which provides kids with another way, a way through which they can educate themselves and escape the traps of destiny, or an art studio where young artist show their amazing paintings, most of them with one theme in common – their life and experience at the Rocinha.

Of course, these are just two small examples of the positive things being done in the community and what a tourist involuntarily sees and what he can't see maybe much much scarier. Shootings are not rare and occur, at least, every other semester between the police and the local gang which controls the favela or between rival gangs. The moment where your guide informs you about the shootings you can't help to wonder, as your heart stops : “What if a shooting started now?”.

The community must be very respectful to the leaders of these gangs but it is also very organized. Mail post, churches, several shops, diners, bakeries and bars exist and are available to the locals and to the outsiders. One of those famous outsiders was the singer Lenny Kravitz who visited the Rocinha some years ago and refused havaing any reporters following him.

A noble attitude which should remind everyone who comes to the Rocinha that what happens there is not a show, it is not something to feel sorry for or be afraid of. What happens there is real life, those are real people who had the misfortune of being born in one of the largest favelas of  Latin America. They are not monsters, they are not thieves or drug dealers. Most of them are normal people who just want a normal life.

Looking, this time up, to the morros (large rocks on the top of the hills which “fortify” the Rocinha) and the colourful buildings embodying a joy which is not really there, is not without a sense of helplessness that one leaves, albeit all the projects and efforts of the NGOs involved in solving this problem. A sense that there is so much to be done and that what is done is almost hopeless.  Nevertheless, there is an old Portuguese saying which is always important to remember when everything seems to fall apart - Hope is always the last thing to die.

No one can just be there as a tourist, not even as a professional or a humanitarian. I was there as a Person. I was there only a few hours but felt like I had been there my whole life. I imagined growing in those dark alleys, I imagined being afraid, I imagined being led to a world where drugs, violence and guns would mean routine and where toughness would be essential to survive. I imagined growing without a future, growing without education or basic essential health. That's the power of imagination – living another life in your thoughts. Imagine growing without that power? Imagined that? That's life at the Rocinha. 

São Paulo.

(Escrito lá, há mais de um ano)

Percorro as linhas desta cidade-fêmea
com olhos vividos, atentos inundado
pelo furor repentista de mais uma manhã frenética
nesta Nova Iorque latina, metrópole de sangue mestiço,
Sangue de muitas gerações,
de tantas nações e diferentes credos...
Sangue adocicado ao gosto de café e pó

Fervo com este calor seco,
Com os carros que nunca param,
que transitam alucinadamente 
partindo do nada para lado algum
mas sem nunca, nunca parar. 
Estar quieto é um privilégio, 
o silêncio ode, a solidão utopia. 
Contemplar é um luxo desnecessário 
que atrapalha e inutiliza tempo e dinheiro. 

Mas, mesmo assim, insisto e demando
encontrar-me com o Sol que se põe,
na literal Praça do Pôr do Sol. 
(Quando se olha para o céu, 
as estrelas lembram que este é outro hemisfério
e que as estrelas que víamos são agora mito.) 

Apetece-me correr. Apetece-me também nunca parar. 
Encho-me de Humanismo, 
sinto-o rebater no meu coração 
e a viagem nunca pára nesta Cidade-Mundo. 
Cidade mais heterogénea, um coar magnífico de sentimento,
um co-existir tão conjunto e tão distinto 
tão frio e tão quente, perto como distante...

A desorganização da parada de ónibus 
(para mim, estrangeirismo, 
que me desculpe a Lusofonia!) 
que obriga ao diálogo
- Paradoxo, numa cidade tão pouco habituada a ele 
onde as pessoas passam, são, ficam 
( não, nunca ficam!) furiosas 
e um "Olá, tudo bem?" é muito 
para quem tão pouco TEMPO tem.
As pessoas passam. As pessoas passam, passam
Passam! 

E há guerra! 
Guerra urbana por um lugar mais confortável no ónibus, 
Guerra para chegar mais rápido ao trabalho, a casa, ao supermercado! 
Guerra só para ir, guerra apenas para não estar parado! 

Esta metrópole, esta mega-cidade, esta cidade engole, 
consome, atropela qualquer um.
Esta cidade tira muito mas também dá muito. 
Esta cidade tem todo o Mundo e todo o Brasil. 

Nova Iorque outra vez na minha mente 
enquanto me sento em pé na varanda 
e aprecio o silêncio lusco-fusco noturno...

- Central "Ibirapuera" Park, 5th "Paulista" Avenue 
- e o hino de Alicia Keys faz-me viver mais este sonho... 
Paraíso caótico, céu brasileiro e desigual, 
o som não-onomatopeico dos helicópteros 
e o som violento do dia-a-dia. 

Percorro as linhas desta cidade-fêmea 
E encontro-me comigo.
Lembro o tanto pouco que passou. 

Cidade mais magnífica nunca eu vi. 
(E ainda não te conheci...)

(Re)lendo a Dobrada à moda do Porto.

Ler este poema não é ler este poema

É ler-me a mim quando lia este poema
É ler-me agora que leio este poemae já não o sinto.Com quantos Álvaros de Campos
não me cruzo a caminho de casa?
Com quantos bêbedos aprendizes
- porque se aprende sempre -não escreveram (escrevem!) odes mais luminosas,
poemas mais em linha recta que Álvaro de Campos?Esta fatalidade que me fazia chorar, sofreré a mesma fatalidade que agora me faz rir.
Ó poeta bêbedo, o álcool não é solução de nada!

Casa.

Ao cair constante da chuva
vejo a tua metódica face e acordo
acordo de raiva, maltratando a inocente
almofada

"-O que te falta? Porra, o que te falta?"
Trechos de uma vida metódica, analisada
Passagens de frios guerreiros enfiados
neste mesmo campo de batalha - casa.

O eco da pergunta que não foi feita
balanceia-se, fluí triste.
E somos os mesmos, adormecendo de raiva
perguntando o que falta? o que falta?

Train rides are the loneliest of rides.

Train rides are the loneliest of rides.
Inside the deep white bright
Keeps you from peeking to the sides
Where there's the dark, the night.

And you are only you, trapped, clueless.
Only you, and Space and Time -
strange concepts. Without success
you try to write, you try to rhyme...

Si simple.

Vem-me muitas vezes à memória,
fluindo como as ondas suaves,
que contam a nossa história,
aquele dia, aquela praia, as saudades...

Do dia em que fomos completos,
Da praia em que fomos amados...

Days.

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin.

Ironia.

Maior arma contra dantesco penedo
-Incúria, tristeza, vileza e desgraça
Santo remédio de uma velha traça
- Um apático País parido a medo…

Amargo veneno, a um tempo, forte e ledo
Libertar garrido de gasta mordaça
Justiça glacial contra a comum trapaça
Dos mestres, sabiamente, maior segredo!

Ironia, sadia, pura e límpida Divindade!
Limpa o torpe lodo, a suja lama
Purifica as Letras e aquece seus beijos frios

Tomado por teus olhos macios
Ledo, adormeço em tua doce Fama
Colhendo as rubras flores da Verdade!

Eça de Queiroz.

A vida!... Essa coisa misteriosa
Às vezes, doce e colorida
Outras, massa cinzenta e indefinida!
Matéria-prima de tua inspirada prosa!

Feia coisa, pardacenta e indecorosa
Essa, a de falhar a reles vida!
Mas, que resta, se ela não é se não descida?
Inspiração bruta de tua suave glosa!

Ah, figura sóbria, peregrino do Mundo!
percorro tuas páginas, resplandecente
feliz e iluminado, como tu pelo brilho do Oriente!

Mas, vindo de ti, sinto um suspiro profundo:
«-O que é Tudo, senão um doce engano?
Paixão? Querer? Correr? Só atrás do americano!»

Bênção.

Descendo à Terra, Lhe disse solenemente
«- Homem, tudo isto é teu pertence agora
Aqui permanecerás, tranquila e serenamente
E aqui passarás, até que chegue tua hora»

E o Homem, inquietando-se, subitamente,
perguntou: «- Mas, e a Esperança onde mora?
Nada me resta a não ser a Demora? »
«- Não! Nada mais! » rugiu Ele, firmemente.

«A vida não é mais que uma roda de viver
Onde o Bem e o Mal vivem a perdurar
E os dias são teus até o teu Eu acabar

Que seja tua missão a eterna mudança acolher
E tua pior maldição, ao meu repto desobedecer
Eis teu maior pecado, Homem: ambicionar!»

Ad eternum.

Fé misteriosa move os grandes d'uma nação
Desejo louco, enigmático, obscuro
Um tudo indistinto entre sentimento e razão
A invenção, a ideia corpórea do Futuro

Algo que morde, que não acalma o coração
Um querer sem quartel, sem poiso seguro
Talvez mágoa, talvez mera inquietação
Um sentir, um ver, um almejar limpo e puro

Fé misteriosa, sem definição, nem Nome
Saciar impossível de uma incógnita fome
Um correr sem percebida necessidade

Na demanda de algo grande, de maior
Busca d'Amor, da Luz, da Verdade
- o Eterno, meu Mestre e meu Senhor!

A Manuel Alegre.

Duro desafio, derradeiro dilema
A escolha: rés-pública ou a amada poesia?
E uma estranha dor, um estranho problema
- A visão do mais além, do novo dia

Assim, a pena leve, mas quiçá amarga, desfia
O sonho nas linhas do teu eterno poema
E o desejo incontrolável de fim à apatia
Na tua amargurada garganta é principal tema

Sem perceber porquê esperar do Céu
O porvir, o santo-Graal, o almejado sentido
Um Portugal que não volta, o que podia ter sido

O fim desta inquietação, desta ânsia
O novo Mar, o Fim, a distância!
-Pátria Amada, sonho teu, sonho meu …

Só (as minhas) palavras escritas.

Pois que a vida não deve existir,
nem ser escrita.

Não parti, porque afinal nunca cheguei.
Estou aqui, na terra de todos aqueles que
não se conhecem, estendendo-te a mão.

Querias ser como eu? Não queremos
ser todos algo que não somos? É
duro reencontrarmo-nos, sim.
Nunca soube, nunca perceberei
se o hábito, a rotina, essa solidão
é prenda ou veneno... Tu sabe-lo?

Assim, escrevo como se
tudo fosse perguntar.
E cá vou andando, nunca partindo,
nunca chegando...

Na biblioteca,
fingindo-te distraído,
por entre olhares que julgas
- em antecipação-
como perdidos,
sonhas acordado e procuras
amor como só o conheces
do cinema.
Suspiras, será ela?
misteriosa leitora de Brecht
Enquanto te perguntas porque não
te devolveu o olhar
apalpas suavemente
uma página do teu poeta
favorito e só assim
frio, longe, morto
pela substância do tempo
sentes o amor
em que já deixaste de acreditar...

O que vale é que há sempre
o que o outro dia nos traz, não é?