Será que as palavras são tristes por as linhas não terem voz?
Acontecem coisas que nos escapam!
Todavia, momentos multiplicam-se. E em cada um renova-se a vibração da criação.
Há tempo para tudo, tanto para a solidão como para a comunhão.
Prefiro a plenitude do silêncio. Confesso. Não por destino, mas por condição.
Eu? Escrevo as linhas que ultrapassam as fronteiras.
Para além do horizonte, está o multiverso!
Are words sad because lines have no voice?
Things that illude us happen!
Yet, moments multiply. And in each one the vibration of creation is renewed.
There’s time for everything, both for solitude as for communion.
I prefer the fullness of silence. I confess. Not by destiny, but by condition.
I? I write lines that cross borders.
Beyond the horizon is the multiverse!
in DEUSES, HOMENS E O UNIVERSO
VFS, 5 de junho de 2002
(Flickr – Red Heart by Rune T)
Fields of waterfalls require faith.
Yet, I don’t fear crossings.
I believe in your embrace!
And time is our gift.
We were before the winds essence.
On such veil remains the comet’s core.
If a journey is a condition
I’ll inscribe all the steps until the end.
Every rebirth demands memory.
And I weave the shroud of red stones
into thin moonlight petals
yearning the kisses that fulfil your heart.
Myths of lust stay at bay
as I chase the twilight centaur,
hoping to deserve wisdom words
and return to the pleasure of your curves
The scarlet thing in you is my dream.
If you can not find order in chaos,
you are not in the universe!
Se não consegues encontrar a ordem no caos,
não estás no universo!
a metodologia profana é o desvendar dos dedos.
frágil meio que versa a comunhão do Ser
sem perceber que a coexistência
é um labirinto de vaidades rendilhadas,
albergando breves compassos
plenos de momentos individualizados.
vozes são erigidas diariamente para a subsistência das duas esculturas,
mas é semanalmente que se contraem os voos.
planicies são ilusão.
não há cornucópias na dobra do horizonte.
e, no regaço do declive, os estios serão sempre sazonais.
the profane methodology is the unveiling of fingers.
frail medium about the fellowship of being
unaware that coexistence is a maze of laced vanities,
harboring brief compasses
filled with individual moments.
daily voices are raised to the livelihoods of the two sculptures,
but it’s weekly that flights are constricted.
plains are illusions.
there’re no cornucopias on the horizon bends.
and, in the slope’s lap, summers will always be seasonal.
e existes para o mundo.
com ternura, recebe-te
e no silêncio duma prece,
[a Deus] agradece.
Num momento de dor
a vida com amor.
Haverá alguma sensação
que ofereça maior protecção?
In a second,
life borns into the world.
with tenderness, welcomes you
and in a silent prayer,
in a moment of pain
life with love.
Is there some sensation
that offers greater protection?
new doors are born every day.
quiet, awaiting the fingertips grasp.
but inside us, blood is old.
only wind has permission to rejuvenate it.
the way to the darkness core is changing!
wind is time between doors
and doors must be shut.
that’s the essence of rebirth!
existence is an opening movement
that lingers in relativity.
none will return.
No supervision will rise again!
Except the Sun.
Until next night.
Is light concrete
or mere rotation achievement?
Does the sky really change?
Beyond the edge
dark matter rules.
We are a sheer blue dot
surrounded by the vastness of evolution.
If we consider everything
where’s our significance?
Within the Forest of Mysteries,
crossing the corridors of light,
we contemplate the ice caves of the sun.
Such a place favours dreams
where, surrounded by a row of red fire veils,
surfaces the crystal castle.
Yet, I lost myself in time
wandering through sacred passages
searching the green void,
losing the tears of trees.
At the ample and silent edge, I ponder:
How profound is the deep?
And questions are creatures,
simple and quiet,
making the shallow core of the rain
inside yesterday’s breeze.
Perhaps the senses are returning to the cradle?
The obscurity is lit by blue torches.
But inside the white pearl collar
there’s no lifeblood or insignia.
Just a soul of unconscious being.
And I still am
my own orphan!
Sandstorms and blights,
lamb’s wool and movies sounds.
every fundamental notion is drained.
Ruby mountains are no more!
Gone with the rain,
nothing remains in celluloid.
Drifts of green soil?
Irrelevant pieces of desire!
I HAVE SUCH A TEACHER
“Last night my teacher thaught me the lesson of poverty,
having nothing and wanting nothing.
I am a naked man standing inside a mine of rubies,
clothed in red silk.
I absorb the shining and now I see the ocean,
bilions of simultaneous motions
moving in me.
A circle of lovely, quiet people
becomes de ring on my finger.
Then the wind and thunder of rain on the way.
I have such a teacher.”
Look at the immense
Am I lost in the divine?
Belonging to this void
or dreaming in another place?
Look at the fractures
There’s no continuum.
Where have gone the eras and all past life’s?
Look at the consequence
Did you found your awareness?
Look at …
… the reverse mirror within.
Are you real emptiness?
In between moments
I remain quiet,
awaiting the silence
But we’re born
before the winds of time.
In between moments
or choices …
… of life.