My Portuguese sadness,
My Italian gesticulation,
My German treatment,
My Northern simplicity,
My Brazilian compassion
Can only explain half of me.

I don't know Yoruba
And I don't know Tupi,
I am a Brazilian suspended
In European webs,
But all of it have a bit of me.
I cannot decide between
Abequar and Icarus,
For I am a constant mixture of opposites.

I can only define myself
Within gradients and midterms,
Undefinable, then.
To have an identity
Is to have none.