Wednesday, May 30, 2012


(image by Chloe)

Nos intervalos
de viver
escrevo histórias
que não seremos

povoadas com 
intenções de azul
e lírios

penduramos desejos 
nos galhos mais altos
dos baobás

você, quase real,
segura o meu 

At the intervals
of living
I write stories
we won't be

inhabited by
intentions of
lillies and blue

we hang dreams
to the highest branches
of baobabs

a nearly real you
holds my heart.


  1. the first lines hold me with their suggestion and i am caught in wonder right there,

    At the intervals
    of living
    I write stories

    this is both true and untrue, how life is divided into a series of (mis)adventures and experiences, as though they appear in sacs, micro-living and learning events, but too it is one long extension from the past into the future, never one moment static. how do we ever manage to stop and write anything? nothing is ever done.

    and then i am caught again in the curiosity of a nearly real you. what, oh what, could be real of anyone?


  2. escrevo histórias
    que não seremos

    isn't this true? we write other lives for ourselves, beside the real life .. and sometimes it is hard to know the difference -- those alternate histories assume great importance ....

  3. O que são as palavras se não as entrelinhas da vida.

  4. Whenever I read your poetry I feel so full inside and capable of beautiful things. This piece rings so true and it's one I can relate with. The hardest part is realizing that that one person was only an illusion.


Deixe suas linhas tortas │Leave your crooked lines│