Let’s talk about houses, shrewd exercise of power
as solid and quiet as there was only
in the earliest time.
These are the architects, those who will die,
smiling with irony and tenderness in the background
from a top secret that carries them back to the mud.
With sweet blameless hands.
Over the months, dreaming about the previous rain,
houses find their innocent way of standing against
the subtle mouth surrounded by the darkness of the words.

H. Helder

My Suitcase…

Depending on the weather, this Sunday we intend to use our Navegador for one of those rare family expeditions to Inhaca. I suppose the four of us have Paul in our minds and hearts, at least I have.

Probably, these Dead Man’s Bones’ lyrics say all that I would like to say to him right now:

My suitcase is packed
With all your heartbeats
So I walk to their sound
And head towards the sun
So my shadow will cover
The tears on the ground

I’m moving away from the place
Where you took your last breathe
To find you, my love
In the magic of life
After death