YOUR FACE – Your face is a piece of music mute, as the wind. Yet I hear it from afar, not forgetting even without seeing, and I follow, by heart the sigh of this ah, more torn blind and alone.
IN THE MIRROR – In the mirror unimaginable enigmage? No. Nor. But. I will never write myself again. I will wear grey a Dorian Grey subject (occluded) from rain and thunder, and I’ll only stop when my blood, shuts its mouth as a whole. Letters have already saved me from the precipice: SOS VIP RSVP, Black tie, etc.
BREATHLESS POSTCARD – Nature doesn’t nurture anything, it never looks back parasols and paradise, and every verb in the infinite I die, within a landscape where stations pass, by clocks fixed in the open. From the windows of a train through time, brusque cuts quick, plucked by the root from plain air. What the moon pulls from the stone, pieces of sky and sea mountains, ah! Beyond and indifferent, torn leaves, thou shall & shall not what? And in which notebook?
https://www.amazon.it/Dever-Em-Portuguese-do-Brasil/dp/8535922547
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