The roses I sow - I expect the dryness of the earth.
The purity I sought - I expect delusion to exort.
The dreams I dream - I dream in fancy for art.

The lives I lived - I remember the harrowing.
The songs I sang - I entombed them in my mouth.
The steps I trod - I clipped for my face's sake.

The smiles I smile - I think them unsure.
The doubts I breath - I see them secure.
The bread I take - I judge it alms given.

The hopes I have - I hear them as all.
The strength I have - I fear it failing.
The Gods I adore - I'm mute.

On Moonsinging

Did you ever moonsing?
Those who never moonsang can't see the Moon as it really is - or can they?
Moonsinging - sighing and sighting it is - listening to the Moon more than singing with it.
Singing to it, pointless - the Moon can't hear you;
Singing with it, all that matters - the Moon with you.
And the Moon, a silver lattice on the dark-taken dome,
More singing then sighting or sighing, can sing with you.

Methinks that I can moonsing.
Things of silver, things of shiny allegiance. Flickering, haunting things of balming.
Tokens of echoing, of vult and remembrance. Radiant, quiet thoughts of cold.
Silent shattering, profuse - moonsight and moonsought:
Silent passing, confuse - following the one who follows you.
And I, moonsing, wandering and wondering dusk-taken,
More sighing or sighting then singing, singing with the Moon.


-- I`ve got an arrow here --
-- Vainly I had sought to borrow surcease of sorrow --
-- Nor shadows dim her way --

Poucos que sei

Do dia ficam vagas imagens
Que unidas em grande miragem
Eu tenho, em tolice, por viagem.
Entendia, sorria, calava, cismava
Nada imaginando eu andava,
Mais e mais ledo em meu engano,
Sei! Sei o quanto me enganava...

Não sei se fico, caio ou ando,
entendo pouco, sonho vagando,
o coração o passo desacelerando,
presente das horas que passam,
Não dos segundos que se gastam,
entendo que por baixo do pano
o céu sofre os dias que se arrastam...

Seu silêncio, sol, me desconcerta,
porque sorrio com aspereza certa
que chora risos na boca aberta.
quer se esconder na sombra comigo?
de varde, à toda, deixar passar ano?
"mim? me? comigo? ti? te? contigo?"

Não Entendimento

Dizem-me "viva!", mas não estou morrendo.
Dizem-me "durma!", mas não tenho sono.
Querem que eu pare, mas não comecei.
Querem que eu continue - nem parei.

Comemoram (viva!) minha ignorância?
Ludibriam (durma!) minha atenção?
Paz insensata, querer dubitável.
Mesmice serena, vazio amável.

E vai-se a vida, viva, sem saber como,
e digo quieta, durma, à paz gritante.
Como quisesse dor enganado amor,
ou pedisse vivas, sonolento instante.

Li dos trabalhos perdidos do amor sem saber como eram,
e quis Amor de Salvação tendo apenas Amor de Perdição.
Aviltar: A Insustentável Leveza do Ser,
querer não escalar uma montanha mágica.

Acordei - A Metamorfose. Dormi. Dormi?
E vou vivendo Guerra e Paz.
Madame Bovary, o que fizemos?
Quo Vadis minha alma, Sexta-Feira do Crusoé...

Quem sou eu para querer Amor de Salvação?
Tudo o que me coube foi Amor de Perdição,
graças aos Cem Anos de Solidão...
Ah, amargas Memórias do Cárcere.

E uma vida, Antologia, segue descompassada.
São minhas Memórias do Subsolo,
São os minutos na Hora das Bruxas.
Peça Escocesa é aquela sem Julieta?

Once upon a time, I was falling in love
But now, I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart

Once upon a time, there was light in my life
But now, there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart

Moonheart

Though sorrowful I lie this night, the light of the stars I see - and the Moon sees with me.
Though hopesless I look this night, the warmth of the stars I feel - and the Moon crackles with me.
Though lost I am this night, the barbs of the stars I follow - and the Moon drifts away with me.
Though silent I remain this night, the voice of the stars I hear: and I'll sing my soul to the Moon -
And the Moon sings with me.

A Crowned Coward

Like a black bug, I hide within the petals within the petals of a flower of fear. I dwell in a wilt bloom, hiding beneath words that are not my own, always, to hide my crude mute voice. I dress myself of all things a man can guess to hide my nudity from a shunning crowd.

I ask myself:
Is the will to help when having no help to offer more than having the power to help without the will to do so? Who is foolishly pure and innocently void? Me? the Other?

And like a child playing with the scorpion, plucking it on my diminutive hand, feeling the failing vain warmth of its blood, I can feel only the guise and drool of power, of the proud plucking, the glorious crushing - never feeling the sting-brought regret, never mourning the wasted poison.

Leaden Plume

Oh, for a moment I wished
the voices in my head to shut up -
I've been barely able to heed to the angel
and to speak to the devil
perched on my shoulders.

Yet, to my dismay,
I caught myself babbling all along,
and I've got the angel's wings,
and I've got the demon's tail,
and the voices in my head -

- my head perched on my shoulders.