;)

E hoje foi um dia bom...um dia em que me apeteceu voltar ás palavras.Grandes feitos aconteceram no mundo durante o meu silêncio...assim parece:)

FUCKING DEJA VU!!!!!!!!!!!

As minhas saudades tuas

"Tenho saudades tuas isso eu sei, porque sinto no meu peito estas ruas

passo por essas ruas isso eu sei porque sinto ter ainda no meu peito coisas tuas..."

.......

"Ao deus dara...tu atiras-te a mim ...so quero fugir

o que queres de mim?...."

Balla

Foi no teu amor

"eu quase amei a forma como tu mentias

limpando os pes ao meu sorriso

e é claro que achas que eu nao presto

é claro que achas que eu nao sirvo

foi no teu amor que algo se perdeu

foi no teu amor

nao no meu

eu quase amei a forma como tu me vias

logo eu amei outra pessoa

e nao me importa se eu nao presto

eu tenho planos para la de mim

e tu es so o que eu te empresto

foi no teu amor que algo se perdeu

foi no teu amor

nao no meu"

Manel cruz

I am the escaped one

"I am the escaped one,

after I was born,

they locked me inside

but I left

my soul seeks me

through heels and valleys

I hope my soul never finds me...."

Fernando pessoa

Fragil

"Põe-me o braço no ombro

Eu preciso de alguém

Dou-me com toda a gente

E não me dou a ninguém

Frágil Sinto-me frágil

Faz-me um sinal qualquer

Se me vires falar de mais

Eu às vezes embarco

Em conversas banais

Frágil

Eu sinto-me frágil

Frágil

Esta noite estou tão frágil

Frágil

Já nem consigo ser ágil

Está a saber-me mal

Este whisky de malte

Adorava estar in

Mas estou-me a sentir out

Frágil

Eu sinto-me frágil

Acompanha-me a casa

Já não aguento mais

Deposita na cama

Os meus restos mortais

Frágil

Eu sinto-me frágil "

Jorge Palma

CARTA A OFELIA -------- Fernando Pessoa

Terrivel Bebé:

gosto das suas cartas, que sao meiguinhas, e tambem gosto de si que é meiguinha tambem. E é bombom, e é vespa, e é mel, que é das abelhas e nao das vespas, e tudo está certo e o Bebé deve escrever-me sempre, mesmo que eu nao escreva, que é sempre, e eu estou triste, e sou maluco e ninguem gosta de mim, e tambem porque é que havia de gostar, e isso mesmo e tudo torna ao principio,e parce-me que ainda lhe telefono hoje,e gostava de lhe dar um beijo na boca, com exactidao e gulodice e cpmer-lhe na boca os beijinhos qu etivesse la escondidos e encostar-m ao seu ombro e escorregar para a ternura dos pombinhos, e pedir-lhe desculpa e a desculpa ser a fingir, e tornar muitas vezes e ponto final ate recomeçar, e porque é que a Ofelinha gosta de um meliante e de um cevado e de um javardo e de um individuo com ventas de contador de gas e expressao geral de nao estar ali mas na pia da casa ao lado, e exactamente, e enfim, e vou acabar porque estou doido, e estive sempre, e é de nascença, que é como quem diz desde que nasci, e eu gostava que a Bebé fosse uma boneca minha, e eu fazia como uma criança, despia-a, e o papel acaba aqui mesmo, e isto parece impossivel ser escrito por um ser humano, mas é escrito por mim.

by miss M

"A Brave and Startling Truth"


We, this people on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through causal space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we discover
A brave and startling truth
And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms
When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign lands
When the rapacious storming of churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze
When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged may walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse
When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Not the Garden of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled in delicious color
By Western sunsets
Not the Danube flowing in its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the rising sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world
When we come to it
We, this people, on this miniscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade, the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cantankerous words
Which challenge our existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Can come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe
We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils or divines
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
And without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonders of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
On The Pulse of Morning
by Maya Angelou
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
It says, come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the Rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo,
the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

"De amor mais nada me resta que um ombro

E quanto mais amada mais desisto

Quanto mais me cubro, mais me dispo

E quanto mais me escondo mais me avisto...

E sei que mais te enleio e te deslumbro

Porque se mais me ofusco mais existo...

Por dentro me ilumino sol oculto

Por fora te ajoelho corpo mistico

Nao me acordes, estou morta na quermesse

dos teus beijos. Eterea a minha especie

nem teus zelos amantes a demoveram

Mas quanto mais em nuvem me desfaço

Mais de terra e de fogo é o abraço

Com que na carne queres reter-m jovem"

"I DON´T SEE WHAT ANYONE CAN SEE IN ANYONE ELSE BUT YOU..."