Search among Armando Taborda's articles

It rains the Day of Dead is there the memory we keep of them becomes more liquid in this humid apathy at cemeteries flowers will stay exuberant for longer. Chove o Dia dos Mortos está aí a memória que deles temos fica mais líquida nesta

I'm a writer of little writing so I don't tire you with repetitions days follow one another and nights and tides as well we look to the full moon the sunligh the dark night and the tide line on the sand as it was for the first time if the world doesn't

An ashes halo around my eyes crowns the insomnia I get up from bed. Alone. I hesitate on the matter I am and I ask what is left for the explanation of my night's astonishment. Until when I look for the first smile at the day after and

At the quiet walls sky spills silence on the city hills a thrill of light goes over streets avenues alleys not ever intermittent cause night is not only made of stars. Na calma dos muros de silêncio que o céu derrama sobre ruas avenidas e ruelas