Silêncio ruidoso, é um choro engasgado.

Eu me perguntava o porquê, dessa sua dor, desse seu louvor,

Pra sempre que eu me dava calado, pras vezes que me fazia falado,

Dizia com o quê, de que não tem dor, no silêncio do amado,

Dizia pra você, que tua presença me quietava a lingua, deixava o pó das cabeceiras

Contar pouco a pouco, o quão de tanto tempo que me deixava de tanto amor lavado

Eu falava pra você, quando aos prantos você caía, que tava pra ficar tudo solucionado

Mas nos seus soluços, depois de tantos alvoroços que o pó e a poeira me levantaram

E hoje eu vejo que aquele meu silêncio te matava, junto com todo esse meu couro rasgado

E eu já caio em grito agudo de quebranto, de tanto calar como você fez clamar,

de um amor que não vem de quem não faz em si mesmo, mas que pede tanto, tanto

De um amor que você não quer que o tempo leve, que o fim de tarde desbote, que o raiar da noite abotoe

Mas de um amor que quer ouvir, se livrar desse atrito forçoso

Sem som, sem dom, sem par de asas que sobrevoe

De um amor soluçado e doloroso

De um silêncio ruidoso, de um coro atrasado

De um oblívio sulfuroso, de um borbulhar já naufragado

De um silêncio ruidoso, de um choro engasgado,

De um silêncio ruidoso, de um choro engasgado.

Poetry poetry poetry poetry.

Even the stars, which birth, bloom and death, may take more than ten thousand human lives to ensure and express its beauty in such a natural way,

Are faded to disolve in nothingness.

Even their deaths, resulting in the dark abysses of the endless beyond sky, the last long moanings chanted, as if to compensate their so galantly past lives, shining in darkness.

Even the undaunted and so-called eternal flowers that adorn our unreachable sky,

are but fleeting maidens, chasing after the blossoming of their own lifelines, only to die afterwards, a death by no means insignificant and apart from their same beauty.

And so, I ask, what may be the beauty of the black sheet behind our twinkling sky fragrances?

Aside from being that which remains the same, amidst the endless dance of change?

Aside from being the still and silent mistery that shrowds our lives when the day is done?

Maybe it is made from the same scent as the world of dreams we enter each night, as much as that curtain is dropped upon the sky.

I wonder what has this oniric realm in store for me this night.

I wonder if the sky will show me its secrets so lovingly, in the same way I wonder about its lost tale.

"Eu amo você."

Um sussurro de amor. Leves brisas delineiam um dançar de cortinas, uma sutil valsa, como as palavras levadas por um ar vindo de um sono, vindo de um sonho, da luz incerta que a lua despejava sobre a terra, em uma noite dúbia quanto à sua realidade, ambígua quanto seu caráter de honestidade-com o mundo onde pessoas vivem todos os dias.

Palavras que escorreram como braços e, envolvendo-se em um corpo dócil e semi-acordado, farfalharam o som de um lençol de luxo usado pela primeira vez.

Após o sonho martelado por toda a estadia do sol sobre a cabeça da jovem donzela, a noite foi recebida com uma inquieta expectativa: de que não fosse apenas um sonho. De que o mundo fosse, e o anjo misterioso de uma noite que não existia neste lugar onde vivemos, fosse a vida real a recebendo, com um abraço que a lembrança não pode acolher, e que o toque não permite à pele compreender, cujo rosto desafia o olhar de águias que o tentem enxergar, que a fragrância manda ao oblívio o sentido e a razão, desta manhã, dia, tarde, fim de tarde e noite, que percorremos vez por vez, queimando como uma vela, nos consumindo em um cotidiano que por nós, mal ou bem, suportado ou não, é vivido.

Como um borrão vago, ou como vívidos segundos, passando despercebidos por nossas idades.

The Limit of Vision

We all see our sights to the extent of the feeling which permeates our eyes.

Be it the sadness that drips to the ground,

Be it the love that blinds every fool,

Be it the sight of that treasured love, or the darkness of that white room without ceiling or walls,

Be it the simple, gentle and plain bias that grants us sense and reason, heart and will.

Be it what it is, we all se our skies and seas, our lands and our dreams

With colors, that someone dreams of,

With tones and shapes that someone, far far away, still awaits to percieve, someday, somewhere.

So whenever you feel anything at all,

Wherever in this wolrd,

Paint it, sing it, play it

Draw it from the scratch of the horizon you live for, of the horizon you live in,

In all the shades of that fading fragrance, even if it's already gone and long forgotten

Put it in a tall, long wall, so that everyone would be able to see it

So that the one who dreams of it, so deeply and hopeless, hopefully

Could whimsically touch it, as the scene of that unseen and longed for colour

Could brush past the long closed eyes of that one's heart.

So that I can see that colour again, so that I can paint it in my sky

So that it finally matches the violet moon that floats in this emptiness, with nothing but it's orange-red aureole that fades away, away from it's profile.

This emptiness that surrounds my shy clouds of a yellowish and cyan green,

That stands above my humble fields of light blue and indigo.

So that the sky without a color

Could shine on it's own accord, free from the nothingness that took its love away.

L. A. , the Lord of good fortune, aka the god of travels and paths

Don’t ask me why I put so many coins in that bet, you know already how many times I’ve won and how many I’ve lost. I’m sure you’ll notice I have won all of my bets, in all of my life. And if you disagree with my statement your perception of what I’m really betting in is worse than eating a rotten bread sandwich filled with berserk thermites running around with lightsaber chainsaws. And I’m speaking of doing it barehanded.

Homage to my beloved #%(#²¢&%£

Screwdriver

The number of skills you can polish in your life is not more important than how much you can polish that one certain skill. It won't make you useless, (deja vu here, wtf) since you can polish that same skill to become adaptable to any situation.

It feels good to be able to juggle bagazillions of different ways of living around your own life, but hey, think about what it would be to have a _literally_ all-solving-way-of-doing-things.

It's like, dude, seriously sonic.

DW joke intended, hahahaha.

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nuss, nem boto fé que eu escrevi isso D:

a não ser que achem realmente engraçado LOL

It's not visually inadequate

And it's not erotically imposing either. It's like it tickles where you like, but mixed with a kind of anxiety and anticipation

Kind of like when you're chasing butterflies with your gaze, and their wings are colored with tones and arabesques that question that sense of beauty you hold on to, since it's the only one you've got,

Or when you're by the cafe and the waiter has an eye-patch. It's not gross, and it's not weird, but it's totally catchy, and you're compelled to continuously look at it, while you strategically try not to be thought of as stupidly rude, on top of rudely stupid.

It's alike the feeling when you're having a rare sight, and the visual aspects that compose its overwhelming colors and shapes inflict that aggravated sensation of challenge to your calmness.

Quite teasing, in that aesthetic way, I guess.

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Gift post attempt, lol

Hope it pleases enough, too.