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More and more I write less cause not all is already said but from all that remains unsaid nothing would justify the mystery of life. Cada vez mais escrevo menos não que tudo esteja dito mas de tudo o que fica por dizer nada justificaria o mistério

To sleep like a stone even if the stone is cold hard and doesn't dream and awake as it was the first day even if the life's light is the dream you didn't get Dormir como uma pedra mesmo que a pedra seja fria dura e não sonhe e acordar como no

The large avenue leafy of blossom trees and carbon dioxide inspires the seated anonymous poet at the outdoor coffee shop. Young Afro-Asiatics in full usufruct of bursaries sponsored by the international development assistance

I go with the flow everyday I look for islands and continents previously discovered with brand new navigational techniques Latina sail sextant compass and clean sky for my orientation through the stars here I go along the

The escape happens from the unattainable side of self till the other from the finite side of being claims the escaped part of dream. A fuga dá-se pelo lado inatingível do eu até que o outro do lado finito do ser

I love to write without thinking on what I write if I think what I write I tear up my thought and throw it away. Naturally I want the truth. I want it clean as a dawn without clouds neither horizon only dawn wishing to be morning.

MY CITY From my building's top I blink Lisboa's roofs reticent and washed red colour warns me on coming clouds saturated of rain that falls down and carries my eyes sailing liquid tiles till the tears' swirl spills over the obstructed gutter.

I came from the time when there were water lilies in the ponds of the Tapada de Mafra and brides and grooms were photographed at flower beds while anxious guests waited for the banquet under shadows of the August trees and from the external consultation

At my backyard I look for energy vestiges of the initial Universe generated by the Big Bang. I don't see the dark matter that feeds the mystery of gravitating galaxies around the actual Universe. I can't even see the matter's atoms

Your humid eyes are reflected at the misted mirror by dawn they want to say something maybe to blaspheme to cry the sad rhapsody they watch willing to close tired. You travel through yourself undecided between gesture and immobility.

HOME In the afternoon I worry about the nightfall and ask to myself What have I done? Invisible dust moves around and covers furniture and other beds ground carpet mosaic thought somewhere strained by a beam of light

MY BODY In the body the soul dances and in the soul the body falls asleep tired of so much movement without meaning. (to read the original Portuguese version please click on the figure) MY ROOM Time goes by. I

"Lisboa, Av. da Liberdade", by Carlos Alexandre (represented at the Art Gallery / Espaço AmArte), oil on canvas The drawing comes up easily. Very urban! And also from waters, fogs, travels, musics, dreams, events passing by the city. What is

I love the stones on the brook bed they are clean sins shining in the stream they are dived liquid stars sun-shinning water projects them right now against our look and there they are washed exactly in the same position making

by João Silva (represented at Art Gallery / Espaço AmArte), oil on canvas Time of evolution is not yet coming Man continues to exhaust the cosmos till Himself becomes a dead spaceship endlessly traveling towards God. /// Não é chegado o

Fresh air cleans my toxins and conscience at run rhythm under the puff of each expiration the weight of all banquets and whiskeys is inexorable in the Park of Monsanto sweat glides from my face to the shadows' path where

Smoke of fogs at the island steaming on the grey ocean now green under a sun of fire smoking on waters I think seated on the island that wakes up far away murmurs. Fumo de névoas na ilha que fumega no

Avenida da República, II The noises repeat themselves in the avenue and also the light as yesterday the traffic's death rattle in the lane the steps' drag on the sidewalk the talks' murmur at the outdoor coffee shop the exposed navels

I stay here for a short time may it be so time is pressing my will to be lost here there over there infinitely anywhere. (to read the original Portuguese version please click on the figure)

SEA I feel the sea weight in every hidden crying algae roll round legs of all paths my eyes blink iodine's rumours promise of beach so that all sea can be seen in the distance weightless on its bed. (to read the

Since fifty years now my night is flooded by Frédéric Chopin music I think there was little change in my condition my pores become thick of emotion this damned absolute beauty so close to be met as before I feel life is better than spilled anguish in

He came at last from insomnia and stomach heartburn wasn't foreseen he was a dream to dream forget and fall asleep. Por último veio era de insónia e azia no estômago nada faria prever que fosse um sonho para sonhar esquecer e adormecer. by

I concentrate myself in love with the flat and dry Arizona's land of far away mountains beautifully dignified by the generous American sun illuminating my endless landscape my circumstantial mistress. Here I save and dissolve the all-nothing that

Light leaves weak shadows badly drawn on the walls rain falls poorly but there will be a heavy shower by mid-afternoon workers on the scaffolding of the opposite building gather at the works dockyard cars slow down the avenue windshield wipers oscillating

Eyes of wet rain face of frozen wind body of lost soul at the price o rain in the wind's taste. Olhos de chuva molhados rosto de vento gelado corpo de alma perdido ao preço da chuva ao sabor do vento. by Armando TABORDA, in "MANUAL DO DESPERDÍCIO",

I wait the mildness of a quite night for my pain fall asleep in the space's cradle I may yawn before an opera of stars the music is always the same celestial chorus dumb virtual the space immense fits light-years of distance and my pain

The navigation starts by nightfall and slows down at night magnificent of solitude global nothing at the empty sockets even from blue eyes the sky also uncoloured once the optical illusion sees blue everywhere or maybe green upon my

Two in morning it's time to face my night´s remains shadows combine with the light coming up from the avenue into the room where I am seated sometimes one or another noise passes through double-glasses windows this is my sound-proofing

In fact I tell you the truth an intense light from nuclear explosion still guides the Magic Kings of the night in the way to the crib of dreams that often dye in the manger cradle. (to read the Portuguese version click on the picture) En vérité je