Just because he despises the way he is, she doesn’t have to despise herself.
Just because this is she and always will be she.
Just because today there’s nothing else she can say…


If she could wake up with
His hand lazily sleeping
Over the nest of her left breast
What else could she ask
Except for
The rush of their playful sun
Dancing with perky shades
On a retro armoire

What else could she ask
Except for
The brush against
Bougainvillea walls
The gasp of stretched chords

What else could she ask for?

Perhaps then
She would dream
a little less
a little more. 

They Talk About You


Have you ever found words written by someone else that seem to be talking about you? I had this impression when I read a passage from a poem by Florbela Espanca:

Taking mysterious paths along the meadows
On grassy carpets on the forest floor,
We will make a star of our two shadows. 



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