O sol, doente e lânguido, corta preguiçosamente o céu cinzento e enche a sala de vida e luz.

E ninguém repara. 

Pequenas partículas de pó dançam pelo ar, subindo e descendo as escadarias de luz dourada que se escapam pelas persianas.

As minhas palavras enchem a sala, tentando em vão competir com as lâminas cortantes de oiro que a invadem.

Longas correntes de fonemas penduram-se do tecto, como pequenas marionetas na luz do dia que morre e que dançam com as partículas de pele morta e respiração meio adormecida do meu público.   

O som da corrida para a porta liberta-me deste lento marasmo e caminho, seguramente feliz e aliviado, mas não por acabar finalmente, nunca por isso.

Mas por sair para a rua e ficar banhado, algumas dezenas de batimentos apenas, em oiro e calor.

Nada de vento.

Nada de frio.

Só muita, infinita luz. 

Que me entra pelos olhos e pelas mãos, atravessa galopante as minhas veias e sai em cascata, num longo e doloroso sorriso.  

In the rain and dark clouds there is tenderness and care
and through the icy fingers of the raindrops in my face
an infinite and warm love fills my eyes, and I smile.

How can you, you that lived all your lives in the rains' cold embrace,
not love her completely?
Those like me, who grew in the distant lands of the sun,
we know.

All water is love,
and rain, with her blessed icy fingers,
is love given freely,
uncompromisingly.

How can you not love it?

Before I came here, I was loved, but I didn't love.
That comfortable feeling of being loved,
of going through the memorized paths,
filled my heart every day, drowning the loneliness.

Some nights I filled with bodies that loved mine,
and made each other happy, skin against skin.
Other nights I filled with the words and touches
of the voice of true friends, mixed with alcohol and truth.

And in friendship I kept myself alive inside,
and in action and struggle and pain and hate,
I kept my body moving.
So that it would not know it was utterly dead,
inside and out, like a rotten giant tree.

And so it was that I was sent away,
again and further from my home,
away from the infinite places of my heart's content,
away from the arms and the voices and the faces
that meant so much to me.

And in that exile I found love.
And there built a home, and a life.
And my heart is full. with love,
and happiness.

And in it's core I keep,
under a thousand locks,
my friends voices,
and an endless golden plain,
under a cloudless steel blue sky.

When you dream, who are you?

Are your dreams filled with the bittersweet promises of the future?
Do you dream of the daily routine, those little golden nothings, those passing hours of the clock?
Are you there, in your dream?
The you that they see, the you that you show them, is it there, in the dream?

Even though the me that they see, is the true me, it is never in my dreams.

I dream...

... and from my heart the fire rushes through my whole body, like liquid tar, making me smile.
It's that open smile, honest, pure, violent.
I get hit, I fall, I get up, I hit back.
And all evil, all pain, every little one of life's paper cut's, they just leave my body through my fists, through my punches.
I hunt, I hurt, I cut, I smile.
The world is fire, and everything second tastes of blood and ash.

When I dream, I dream of who I was.
And you?

When you dream, who are you?

It is so strange, the sun here never really sets
the light just creeps away
slowly and lazily
giving the darkness enough space
to sip into every place

Long gone are the glorious sunsets
explosions of fire and blood
golden light reflecting from the walls
that a moment ago were whitewashed
or purple paintings along the endless plains

Those sunsets live only in my dreams
memories of my birthplace
of the endless open spaces
where the death of the sun
is glorious and sudden

Lack of dust in the air
a cleaner, a purer atmosphere
the books explain it very clearly
in black and white and science

But no colors
No explosions
No gold, no blood, no imperial purple
No real sunset

Dreams of fire in a vegetable garden

Gardening.

Yes, gardening.

I actually really like it. To plant something, and take care of it, through good and bad weather, so that eventually you will harvest something or other.

Today is sunny and as dry as it will ever get in this island, and I really hate it.

It reminds me of my grandparents house, of hunting in the summer, of the smell of the heat, of things past and things gone.

Give me the shitty rain and fog that you get most days here.

But not this.

In days like this I remember too much.

I remember the fire in my lungs and the heat in my heart.

I remember hunting and being hunted, in the gone days of fire.

The taste of the chase.

Being utterly and completely alive.

The dog touches my knee, gently, with her nose, just to wake me up.

Must have been daydreaming for a big while, the sun traveled a lot, the clouds have covered the afternoon sky.

My bones hurt like the're in a vice, it will rain soon.

I smile.

A big open smile.

No need to water the vegetable garden today.

And no more dreams of fire.

Just sweet oblivion, cool and inviting.

And dinner.

I go in the house, to take a shower.

The dog follows, to eat and chew something.

The dreams of fire stay, planted in the vegetable garden.

Waiting for the rain.

To grow and be harvested.

I walked in the shadow of giants

when the heart in my chest was young

and it's taint was fresh and unscratched

I walked, happily and carefree,

in the company of young gods

under smiling rains and crying suns 

Never a giant or god was I

mind you, but the nymphs

did give me their secrets to keep

What was I but a stone

against which they would rest, 

and tell, and confess, and fell free again

But in the shadows of my deep dreams

do I see still their heat,

now but a memory...

...because I walked with them,

but no more.