Caem as correntes e espinhos do mangual.
Na minha nervosa busca pela integralidade do ser
Fui levado a procurá-la
(Com teimosa e reiterada devoção)
No rubro precipício entre duas coxas alvas
Mas foi nos frutos do nosso químico noivado
Que julgo ter chegado, se não ao meu destino
(Pois há sempre além outros subsequentes,
Sendo o último o inefável)
Pelo menos mais próximo dele
É que nem Lúcifer é mulher
Nem Tetragrama é homem
Embora se mostrem como tal
Ambos são um e o outro
E unidos, são
Mais—a palavra final,
o nome secreto das coisas
Anónimo
Parei um dia em frente de um homem que dispunha pequenos montes de carvão seguidos de um grão de ouro uns a seguir aos outros... parei, curioso.
O homem olhou-me e explicou:
"Estou a contar os momentos que passei. Até chegar a uma hora de ouro, pintei muitos dias de escuro."
"E então? Acha que compensa?" - perguntei, a olhar para as linhas de montes de negro ladeados por faíscas de luz.
"Pelo menos, com este carvão, farei lume e com o ouro, comprarei carne..."
Anónimo
If you dream of something you could do, would you do it?
It's just a dream... would you ruin your life for an illusion or is it already?
Anonymous
One quiet afternoon, after a light rain
Qualintefarus saw a bundle of worms
unborrowing from the ground.
"What are you doing you worms?!"
"We all here trying to make this one stop!" - many said in unison.
"And what You trying to do?"
"These guys are just Demons and I'll bring them down to with me to Heaven!"
So said Santo Antão.
Anonymous
Sometimes you get punched so many times in a row,
You start thinking you deserve it.
Anonymous
Heard a conversation on the train
It was a woman and a man with a cane
He said: "My dear you don't owe anythin'
No one should be in debt
For the involuntary niceties of others you met
As most of them
don't know what they're doing"
Anonymous
Half of life is not caring that stuff fails, the rest is only thinking about why it's failing.
Anonymous
A drop of misleading guidance
will always be better than some avalanche of rightousness.
Anonymous
Quanto depende um do próprio e do seguinte?
It was time for a much delayed incursion into the land of dreams.
The battlefields of incongruity were the same as they've always been.
Traces of future comings fought impossible desires, to become trapped in the nets of memory.
To be a fly in the wall in these fields was always an exhilaration.
An extra on a set where the director and protagonist commands and rewrites at each turn of the page. A flower in a field below the flight of an eagle. The forgotten dead in the experiments of a mad scientist or the incognito helper for the torturer of the enemy's army.
All these were the desires and fears of the dreamer.. Seldom were the blinks of premonition. Even seldomer were the perceptions of such prints on the mind.
But sometimes, one would pick at random a light in a dark corner, a face at a distance, the color of the books in a shelf. And they would write it in the back of their mind. For later remembrance.
And they would say: "I've seen this before..."
I really can't stand dreams.
Anonymous
