A VERY LITTLE POEM

None of my dreams is steel
None of my smiles is rubber
How can I possibly be ready to feel
If all the mysteries are over?

English poem

I saw a star the other night
and I built with it a most beautiful lie
I took the white forms of a face
and I hit it with the fine blade of a phrase
it had the word "love" in it
(that'd make with nose a good rhyme here)
but I said it with eyes really open
cos' the shadows around me were growing
(that isn't past yet
but it's impossible not to go ahead)
but my point here is actually a simple thing:
the face is She, and She's meant to be.

Shakespeare traduzido - parte I

Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with frost, and lust leaves quite gone,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was.
    But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
    Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.


TRADUÇÃO (POR MIM):

Aquelas horas que emolduraram
O contemplar as belíssimas cores,
A escassez também vão abarcar,
E o vil por si bem digno de louvores:
O tempo a conduzir a primavera
Ao mal invernal, e assim submetê-la...
As folhas vão-se, a seiva congela,
A nudez total, o arfar da beleza;
Mesmo assim, não se foi o dom do verde,
A alma presa, cercada de vidro,
Do belo deixa ver ainda o peso,
Distante do que ora está perdido.
    O inverno nada é, com sua dor,
    Senão o doce preparo da flor.

TO MY DREAM

there's nothing rare, yet nothing common,
in her way of spreading her lips, so joyfully, but so calmly,
in her way of staring at nothing somewhere around,
in her way of opening her arms in a hug, with no reason at all...

how could I save these little things from the waterfall of time?

I don't know, but I have something for sure:
as long as my heart beats, and my soul agrees,
all things about her will breathe with me.

One of my english poems

I used to be sad... good times...
but I've never walked to the light;
it was just a way of having fun
(some people have sex, some people run).

yes... but no: no sex at all
(only what's in the manual);
I looked through the window, watching rain,
and ghosts from the past visited me again,

lost Love, good jokes, my hometown;
I used to be sad... how about?
but life, day by day, took me my toy
(what's left is really the lonely joy)

now I'm calm; I put it behind;
but ghosts from the past... never mind.

Poem

My later statue

this breathing statue is not ancient nor glued,
it's not painted nor spread;
it is not hunted nor bought,
it's not sung nor read.
but it has a history:
a whale of sand became
a shadow crossing the window,
and a drop of beauty fever
inside my grave.
it has grown, grown...
and once it made every ocean worth every prayer

(I'm at this point right now,
and at this point I'll surely stay)

but...
I'll never be able to give her a name,
but that is a star during the daylight,
cos' it'll always live on my lips - her taste.

WHITMANIANA

You, life sailor, that has been kissed by the angel of loneliness: I'm with you!
You, mother or father, that has buried your toddler: I'm with you!
You, betrayed husband or wife: I'm with you!
You, abandoned child, that cries louder and louder, with no effect: I'm with you!

I'm with you all, and by god,
I have a simple, yet meaningful, question: who's with me?...

this place...

this place... faithless fight of mine,
my damned prayer, daily price
I pay, for the useless taste of Beauty,
smoothest, frailest ground on where I lie.

this fight... settlement of ghosts,
Memory, Finitude, Love?
a song that I sing but make no sound:
it is just life, burning in my throat.

these ghosts... pictures on my walls,
spying me wherever I walk,
pieces of myself that I collect
to build this non-place that home I call.

my place, my fight, my ghosts - my prize:
my frailest ground:
                             - my highest fly.

I'll never forget my first

I'll never forget my first...
it was dark red, always dirty,
its right door was darker than the left,
to its motor I have a word: "merda".

we, brazilians, love good cars,
but I've never gone too far;
I only had this pretty nonsense one,
just good enough to bring me back home.

so many problems I had,
so much money I have left,
that I have in my heart the great mark:
"buses and trains rarely fall apart".

so, my grateful thanks now I shoot:
"old uno, with love, yours... fuck you!"

Another english poem!

I imagine you, my son,
during the days that will come...
how's gonna be the sound of your voice?...
will I be able to guide your choices?...

I'm afraid to tell you: life
is not that great trip we'd like...
sometimes the food we need is just hope,
and sometimes the lady is not at home;

we knock on the door in vain...
but not everything is pain:
you will find a winter's fire, I'm sure;
be calm: almost everybody does...

don't get fearful, I'll be right here;
but not forever, my son... sleep.

An english poem!

I walk these colored streets
wondering all kinds of shit:
who the hell has built that big blue tower?
does happiness last more than an hour?

I see people working hard,
and a few falling apart...
a few?... no... that wouldn't be that bad...
the truth is: there's dirt under the bed.

America... there we are...
our so desired, so dreamed farm...
I do have something to say to you,
and I will do it the way I should:

learn that: the world is here, and there:
home of the brave... is everywhere.