Tightrope below my feet
remains poor indeed
this endless metaphor

Sickness surrounds feelings
A pill prescribed to oblivion
women carrying the season
along with the infinite silk
disguising a magnetic ion
as a void of poisoned milk

Not a patriot or an immigrant
anything in any land could be
more than this weak accident
of eternal unbelonging rent
not a sentence meaning free

State of fugue, seek in this smoke of poisoning lungs
reading articles and books, offering function to this numb
inside the voids of my mind into this woods.

State of fugue, alone in forest, this wooden solace
where no human shape can be detected, a mind confined while my will is taken. Again smoking as a captive of a defying belief of failing or as a container of tears escaping.

State of fugue, is the maintenance of vice and virtue, but also of poor choices, hitherto we seek something and in oblivion we keep running into solitude and animal noises

State of fugue can be also an invented peace, while outside we pleased ourselves with more than electricity, the solitude of reality where no destructive humanity in present seeks.

From the bottom of the stage
lies the little oldest dream, she
with a magnificent imaginary
friends as roles of this endless play

The old self she made, the actress
without the lines, the madness and blind
eyes reading the parts they once gave

Still growing in this infinite child's play
wondering if the wounds in backstage could
ever be noticed or healed as they scream

Faith remains in: a present of silence, hidden
without disguises, vanishing rapidly away,
in the future they may written another suicidal
coward, vanishing in the hour of another dreadful May

All along those years of secret pain in flowers still
surrounded by fake plastic horrors in secret views, self indulgence among old pills vanishing in this mad's towers

The future seems unclear, in the back of her fears still remains the  running, but it is living while rambling with no roots to clear? To a newer self is wished nothing but courage, a belong fortress where no hollow lurks near.

Cada neto tinha nome de flor
as vezes assustava ao dizer
sempre com amor um nome morto,
ali referindo-se a flor que descansa

Cada sorriso e queda ela sorria
da vida breve era a ladra nata
mas da vida só roubara vasos
variados de plantas tantas

Cada ano se erguia sempre
com sua pitula de cachaça
ria até da desgraça, a velha
doce de fala leve e mansa

Agora descansa ali no céu
a sorrir das plêiades lança
da morte ao subir ao monte
outras sementes do barco
de Caronte

My silence go on
wondering if your tongue
can catch a true out
cracked in my lungs

A past like an old rock
painted with ghosts violets
who eyes go in and lost
beyond not walls, but wicked alphabets

A metaphor ******* with lights
Shining rights a path of lie
to feel me once again whole
in this touch of such an old soul

Revisiting my tight around the couch
old furs within me and without
fancying my mask with pearls
finding myself in this claws

Once again medicated ill of the daughters
swallowing pills in an ocean of waters
dry lips hiding a velvet clear
to crack in the back of my ears

In the end the same lights
where any me is all, your shadow view
to hide the same disguise
of a life without a clue

Death surrounding each path
shadows in the back, howling
I see the black cat coming in
and the souls leaving again
once and then for samhaim.

Samhaim the brightest night who will raise all of our fears
Samhaim our last goodbye to the souls we buried here

We will build our temples on the stone to remember those who leave, we will build our chambers on our own to erase old memories.

We'll fly to fields of dandelion thorns decorating flowers near and remember that away of tombs there are mountains high and deep

Samhaim, the fire bright in the woods of those who see
Samhaim, the stars will rise from Scorpio's dust and breeze
Samhaim the brightest night who will raise all of our fears
Samhaim our last goodbye to the souls we buried here

We will free our heads upon the weight that stands beneath the wind, in the night the cry of souls will sing for those allow to hear

Samhaim, the fire bright in the woods of those who see
Samhaim, the stars will rise from Scorpio's dust and breeze
Samhaim the brightest night who will raise all of our fears
Samhaim our last goodbye to the souls we buried here

Do fundo de um poço escuro de água fria
Vejo outro mundo, nele não há divisas
Nele não há distâncias, mas tão pouco vida

Levanto a face ao medo ecumênico
Tão democrático da morte
Neste tempo efêmero igualar o frio
O pavor da sorte dos que os vivos temem

Do fundo da alma, questionei as pontes
Vejo tantos caminhos, entre tantas fontes
Nenhuma delas, mesmo vida que não
leve a morte, deste poço vivo e ocre

Neste ar respiro silenciosamente
onde pestilências murmuram a sorte
Vejo meu passado e espíritos torpes
onde meus anseios buscam o toque

Toque inexistente, pela efêmera morte

I felt this strange gratitude in solace
Find myself once again freezing
Nobody ever saw me crawling
Yet I'm constantly leaving

I felt this emptiness hollowing
kept myself dying every season
Feeling elsewhere winter's following
but this time without the oblivion

I felt this coldness spreading
through my bones and it's creaking
all the explosions in my head begging
while alone, but yet still bleeding

I felt this wars in my mind
like holy ghosts deceiving
my conscious that was blind
now echoes this anguish screaming

Ó Deusa vestida de espumas
cuja pele traz a leveza de plumas
transbordando pelos poros cas-
catas e inundas de prazer

Ó Afrodite de múltipla alma e ser
és teu parecer a explosão calma
quando teu corpo naufraga mare-
sias ao entardecer

Devotos entregam maçãs e ostras
conchas, flores tantas nos votos
eternos epítetos e formas canta-
rolam ao mar teus fogos

Ó amor que aceita a todos
seja nos ritos, mortais ou monstros
de mulheres e homens lava os cora-
ções aflitos e mudos

Ó Cípria e Safo, elevarão o amor que há em tudo


[inspirada na métrica do fragmento 2d. de Sappho]

Family is a sick metaphor
wherever I go they are
inside of my lungs and more
still alone I'll wander poor

When with the mother
her rage eyes were upon me
watching the sickness of a father
the frustrated artist or the silence

When with the father
his rage screams upon me
calling the nickname of a mother
like I was the end of a love in defiance

Memories of violence swallows me
The anguish of escaping this solace
Watching the cracks of being
thrown in around it

Memories of violence swallows me
and whenever I look I can't hide it
from this anguish puzzles inside of it
this endless wicked metaphor of
family

We all want so badly to keep eternal
holding memories of loss inside of us
but this violence surrounding us
made even traces of love immoral

We all want to keep fresh faces
inside the voids of our pill minds
remember all the ones we embraced
but the fog will swallow then inside

We all want to have beloved ones
inside the pictures, recorded files
and may distance can seem unreal
but in this divided world of surreal
this memories will punish our smiles

All the weight of the world
Falls upon the youth and words
Shattered as memories of lost
Fading like drops of rain in boose

Youngest mirrors through the streets
Hunting for sick promises of liberty
Lie upon a hunger for rumors
forgetting simple senses of humans

A time of redeem machinery
Lost throughout a thirsty misery
where nothing is real, but shared
for twisted proposits of despair

(uni-verse-lyra)

All these years I ramble
No harm I brought, still
the worms hidden trample
as an infinite fogged hill
following a shadow phantom

Alleys inside psychedelic pasts
passages throughout a valley
infinite as sound wave baggage's
locked in the pains of oldness

A glance of an old sadness
traded by the joy of isolation
inside the fire this reckless
feels to rebuild a dream of devotion

After years all that remains
are only confusing emotions
hidden as a cracked ocean
of songs in an old bar's name

This oldness inside my body
as a childish desire of finding
all the pieces hidden.

This pain in the backs as a folly
way to sickness of discovering
all the pieces in the clover

This again over and over
the same humiliation curtain
all the thick in the gardening

You cannot shatter me with my naked flesh, for so many try it. Still one glance at those anxious words of failure and fire could break me entire, if deeper were the eyes to spy it, to see the wounds behind it, those wounds that built a painless ****** in the flesh, a bruise mess, older in myself than shame or desire.

Planes of a trip
over again in deep
thoughts of a sickest
road I lost and find
where this echoes
through my mind
kept me once again
weak