The reason for existence, I don’t know,
For life I am already tired.
From so much disdain to find,
In a gaze, the judging.

I move forward, between encounters
And life's disconnections,
Waiting for someone,
Who, in solidarity, understands me,
Without judgment, but with joy,
For the simple feeling of another.

The feeling is uncertain, fickle,
Reason, many times, certain
Until the opposite becomes clear,
Thus, we know little,
Except what is likely.
And we move forward, waiting,
To discover the improbable,
In the sighs and existences of others.

Betrayal lurking,
In hope of novelty,
Like news carried by the wind,
Blaming indifference,
Breaking the convention
Imposed by society,
Following rules
Indifferent to the heart.

We seek the reason
That "corrupts" emotion.
To be human is to seek reason,
Hiding from sensation.

To succeed and fail,
To run and fall,
To rise and lower,
To cross,
To decide,
To fix and depart.

Here lies the break
In reconciliation,
In the absence of trust.
Love forgives,
But for how long?
Here’s the issue:
The discontent,
The restlessness,
The blessed novelty.

Would we have arrived here,
Without this search?
I don't think so.
What is normal?
What is predefined?
And by whom?

Betrayal is normalized,
A disruption of trust
From an abnormal union,
But natural to the essence,
Like rivers that flow into the sea,
Waves that break through cliffs,
Eagles that migrate and spread,
Devastating tsunamis,
Storms that ravage.

Ah, commitment, pact,
Agreement, alliances,
Necessary for balance,
But inattentive to temptations
And the shocks of passions,
Stronger and older
Than human wisdom.

I strive, like raindrops defying the stern gravity,
or like the wearisome erosion of quartz, persistent and silent,
like rainless showers in an overcast winter sky.

Such are the rare shadows of trees in a suffocating, arid city,
akin to the hope of abundant harvests under a relentless drought.

In the waiting for tomorrow, in the rigor of time and inertia of memories,
so brief and eternal like the wandering of a tender memory;
insignificant and perpetual like the queen of the night blooming in the warm darkness,
deep and penetrating like nostalgia itself, echoing in the silence.

Ponto
Sinal
Frequente
Fixo, mas constante.
Em quê?
No fluxo de pessoas,
persistente no abrigo
de pessoas.

Às vezes, perigo,
mas constante na espera
do povo.