LITTLE LION - CAETANO VELOSO

O Leãozinho

Gosto muito de te ver leãozinho
Caminhando sob o sol
Gosto muito de você leãozinho
Pára de se entristecer leãozinho
O meu coração tão só
Basta eu encontrar você no caminho
Um filhote de leão, raio da manhã
Arrastando o meu olhar como um ímã
O meu coração é o sol, pai de toda cor
Quando ele lhe doura a pele ao léu
Gosto de te ver ao sol leãozinho
De ter ver entrar no mar
Tua pele, tua luz, tua juba
Gosto de ficar ao sol leãozinho
De molhar minha juba
De estar perto de você e entrar numa

CAETANO VELOSO

Little Lion

I really like to see you, little lion
Walking under the sun
I really like you, little lion
Stop being sad, little lion
For my heart is already so lonely
And I only need to found you on my way
A little lion's cub, a ray of the morning sun
Captivating my look like a magnet
My heart is the sun, father of all colour
When it brighten your naked skin
I like to see you on the sun, little lion
And I like to see you getting into the sea
Your skin, your light, your mane
I like to stay on the sun, little lion
To wet my mane
To be next to you, and come in

CAETANO VELOSO

And there is another version also cute:

Tell me why you look so sad Little lion
Tell me what´s been going on
With your broken heart and stolen desire

Tell me why you´re feeling blue Little Lion
I would think you need a friend
If you do I´m here for you Little Lion

If you try to fly, you´ll be going down
Life can be a drag while you´re trying
There will come a day when you look around
You will find the ceiling got higher

Tell me ´bout your thousand dreams Little Lion
What the future holds for you
Somebody to come and nourish the fire

Cuz no matter how you try Little Lion
To escape the pace of time
You´ll be glad for what you have Leaozinho

When you fall to hard you forget your pride
You don´t wanna be lost without it……

If you try to fly, you´ll be going down
Life can be a drag while you´re trying
There will come a day when you look around
You will find the ceiling got higher

Hope I´m being understood Little Lion
Try to fight those clouds away
They´re not doing any good Little Lion

Tell me why you´re feeling blue, Little Lion
Tell me what´s been going on
You know I am here for you Little Lion

They can't take that away from me - Sinatra

The way you wear your hat

The way you sip your tea

The memory of all that

No no they can't take that away from me

The way your smile just beams

The way you sing off key

The way you haunt my dreams

No no they can't take that away from me

Desire - RUMI

A lover knows only humility, he has no choice.
He steals into your alley at night, he has no choice.
He longs to kiss every lock of your hair, don't fret,
he has no choice.
In his frenzied love for you, he longs to break the chains of his imprisonment,
he has no choice.



A lover asked his beloved:
- Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied: I have died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I've become a scholar.
I've lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.

I love myself...I love you.
I love you...I love myself.

I am your lover, come to my side,
I will open the gate to your love.
Come settle with me, let us be neighbours to the stars.
You have been hiding so long, endlessly drifting in the sea of my love.
Even so, you have always been connected to me.
Concealed, revealed, in the unknown, in the un-manifest.
I am life itself.

You have been a prisoner of a little pond,
I am the ocean and its turbulent flood.
Come merge with me,
leave this world of ignorance.
Be with me, I will open the gate to your love.

I desire you more than food or drink
My body my senses my mind hunger for your taste
I can sense your presence in my heart
although you belong to all the world
I wait with silent passïon for one gesture one glance
from you.

Deepak Chopra Feat Demi Moore

RUMI 

Who loves invents - re invention

Who loves invents

Who loves inventing things he loves ...
Maybe you came when I dreamed.
Then suddenly kindled the flame!
The coal was asleep she woke ...
And it was a revoo on ruined places,
In the air astonished bonged bells,
Herded by one Angels pilgrims
Whose gift is to make resurrections ...
A rhythm divine? Oh! simply
The beating of our hearts
Beating together and joyfully,
Or alone, a pace sad ...
Oh! My poor, my great love away,
Nor to know the good it does to people
Be dreaming ... and have lived the dream!


Mario Quintana

Quem ama inventa

Quem ama inventa as coisas a que ama...
Talvez chegaste quando eu te sonhava.
Então de súbito acendeu-se a chama!
Era a brasa dormida que acordava...
E era um revoo sobre a ruinaria,
No ar atônito bimbalhavam sinos,
Tangidos por uns anjos peregrinos
Cujo dom é fazer ressurreições...
Um ritmo divino? Oh! Simplesmente
O palpitar de nossos corações
Batendo juntos e festivamente,
Ou sozinhos, num ritmo tristonho...
Ó! meu pobre, meu grande amor distante,
Nem sabes tu o bem que faz à gente
Haver sonhado... e ter vivido o sonho!

Mario Quintana

[ edit poem ]

Ode To A Naked Beauty - NERUDA

With chaste heart, and pure
eyes
I celebrate you, my beauty,
restraining my blood
so that the line
surges and follows
your contour,
and you bed yourself in my verse,
as in woodland, or wave-spume:
earth's perfume,
sea's music.

Nakedly beautiful,
whether it is your feet, arching
at a primal touch
of sound or breeze,
or your ears,
tiny spiral shells
from the splendour of America's oceans.
Your breasts also,
of equal fullness, overflowing
with the living light
and, yes,
winged
your eyelids of silken corn
that disclose
or enclose
the deep twin landscapes of your eyes.

The line of your back
separating you
falls away into paler regions
then surges
to the smooth hemispheres
of an apple,
and goes splitting
your loveliness
into two pillars
of burnt gold, pure alabaster,
to be lost in the twin clusters of your feet,
from which, once more, lifts and takes fire
the double tree of your symmetry:
flower of fire, open circle of candles,
swollen fruit raised
over the meeting of earth and ocean.

Your body - from what substances
agate, quartz, ears of wheat,
did it flow, was it gathered,
rising like bread
in the warmth,
and signalling hills
silvered,
valleys of a single petal, sweetnesses
of velvet depth,
until the pure, fine, form of woman
thickened
and rested there?

It is not so much light that falls
over the world
extended by your body
its suffocating snow,
as brightness, pouring itself out of you,
as if you were
burning inside.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

© Pablo Neruda. All rights reserved, 73 years ago

Anaphora - Elizabeth Bishop - North and South

Anaphora

Each day with so much ceremony
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
first open on, such brilliant walls
that for a moment we wonder
'Where is the music coming from, the energy?
The day was meant for what ineffable creature
we must have missed? ' Oh promptly he
appears and takes his earthly nature
   instantly, instantly falls
   victim of long intrigue,
   assuming memory and mortal
   mortal fatigue.

More slowly falling into sight
and showering into stippled faces,
darkening, condensing all his light;
in spite of all the dreaming
squandered upon him with that look,
suffers our uses and abuses,
sinks through the drift of bodies,
sinks through the drift of classes
to evening to the beggar in the park
who, weary, without lamp or book
   prepares stupendous studies:
   the fiery event
   of every day in endless
   endless assent. 

Elizabeth Bishop

Chemin De Fer - Elizabeth Bishop - North and South

Chemin De Fer

Alone on the railroad track
I walked with pounding heart.
The ties were too close together
or maybe too far apart.

The scenery was impoverished:
scrub-pine and oak; beyond
its mingled gray-green foliage
I saw the little pond

where the dirty old hermit lives,
lie like an old tear
holding onto its injuries
lucidly year after year.

The hermit shot off his shot-gun
and the tree by his cabin shook.
Over the pond went a ripple
The pet hen went chook-chook.

"Love should be put into action!"
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
tried and tried to confirm it. 

Elizabeth Bishop

The Map - Elizabeth Bishop - North and South

The Map

Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
Along the fine tan sandy shelf
is the land tugging at the sea from under?

The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still.
Labrador's yellow, where the moony Eskimo
has oiled it. We can stroke these lovely bays,
under a glass as if they were expected to blossom,
or as if to provide a clean cage for invisible fish.
The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
-the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

Mapped waters are more quiet than the land is,
lending the land their waves' own conformation:
and Norway's hare runs south in agitation,
profiles investigate the sea, where land is.
Are they assigned, or can the countries pick their colors?
-What suits the character or the native waters best.
Topography displays no favorites; North's as near as West.
More delicate than the historians' are the map-makers' colors. 

Elizabeth Bishop

Equinox

Equinox
means the same for me the same for you 
You got the Fall and get me Springing 
Flourishing
Zephyr is in the sky and passes bettween us and the full moon
Tree's day
A balanced one
Equilibrate the energy on earth
and it feels the same today half and half
fully
We just got to live it
We just have to love it

Saramago - Espace Curved and Finite

Espaço Curvo e Finito

Oculta consciência de não ser,
Ou de ser num estar que me transcende,
Numa rede de presenças
E ausências,
Numa fuga para o ponto de partida:
Um perto que é tão longe,
Um longe aqui.
Uma ânsia de estar e de temer
A semente que de ser se surpreende,
As pedras que repetem as cadências
Da onda sempre nova e repetida
Que neste espaço curvo vem de ti.
José Saramago

Saramago - Sorriso - Smile

Smile, tell me here the dictionary, is the act of smiling. And smiling is laugh without making noise and running twitching of the mouth and eyes.

Smile, my friends, is a lot more than these poor settings, and I was amazed to imagine the author of the dictionary in the act of writing your entry, so cold, as if he had never smiled in his life. Here we see the extent to which people do may differ from what they say. Caio in complete reverie and put myself to dream a dictionary that this precisely, exactly, the meaning of words and turn into run-of-plumb the network that in practice every day, they involve us.

No two smiles alike. We have the smile of derision, the superior smile and her humble contrary, the tenderness, the skepticism, the bitter and ironic, the smile of hope, of condescension the dazzled, the embarrassment, and (why not?) to who dies. And there are many more. But none of them are smiling.

The Smile (this, in capital letters) always comes from afar. It is the manifestation of a profound wisdom, has nothing to do with muscle contractions and does not fit a dictionary definition. Principia by slightly moving face, sometimes hesitant, for a flutter inside that is born in the most secret layers of being. Moves muscles is because it has no other way to express themselves. But they will not? Do not we know that smiles are quick flashes, such sudden and inexplicable brilliance, releasing the fish in deep waters? When the sun passes over the fields in the wind and cloud, which was that the earth moved? And yet it was a smile.

José Saramago

Sorriso, diz-me aqui o dicionário, é o acto de sorrir. E sorrir é rir sem fazer ruído e executando contracção muscular da boca e dos olhos.

O sorriso, meus amigos, é muito mais do que estas pobres definições, e eu pasmo ao imaginar o autor do dicionário no acto de escrever o seu verbete, assim a frio, como se nunca tivesse sorrido na vida. Por aqui se vê até que ponto o que as pessoas fazem pode diferir do que dizem. Caio em completo devaneio e ponho-me a sonhar um dicionário que desse precisamente, exactamente, o sentido das palavras e transformasse em fio-de-prumo a rede em que, na prática de todos os dias, elas nos envolvem.

Não há dois sorrisos iguais. Temos o sorriso de troça, o sorriso superior e o seu contrário humilde, o de ternura, o de cepticismo, o amargo e o irónico, o sorriso de esperança, o de condescendência, o deslumbrado, o de embaraço, e (por que não?) o de quem morre. E há muitos mais. Mas nenhum deles é o Sorriso.

O Sorriso (este, com maiúsculas) vem sempre de longe. É a manifestação de uma sabedoria profunda, não tem nada que ver com as contracções musculares e não cabe numa definição de dicionário. Principia por um leve mover de rosto, às vezes hesitante, por um frémito interior que nasce nas mais secretas camadas do ser. Se move músculos é porque não tem outra maneira de exprimir-se. Mas não terá? Não conhecemos nós sorrisos que são rápidos clarões, como esse brilho súbito e inexplicável que soltam os peixes nas águas fundas? Quando a luz do sol passa sobre os campos ao sabor do vento e da nuvem, que foi que na terra se moveu? E contudo era um sorriso.

José Saramago

Talent

Talent besides being sexy is an aphrodisiac. I think one of the things that catches my attention. Everyone has a skill. Is not it? Only a few people know and use what you have and naturally, without arrogance. Overall charm.

Talento além de ser sexy é afrodisíaco. Acho que uma das coisas que mais me chama atenção. Todo mundo tem uma habilidade. Não é mesmo? Só que algumas pessoas sabem e utilizam o que tem e de forma natural, sem arrogância. Charme total.

Aura

*The aura is commonly understood as luminous coloration around the physical body, but the spiritual point of view, it is well more than that, it is an organic substance, irradiating, the entire human system. Regeneration means the return of man to original purity.

balancer

Trapezista
Ajude-me
Acertar o salto

Nado sincronizado
Dança no ar
Segurar e soltar


trapeze
Help me
Hit the jump

synchronized swimming
Dancing in the air

Hold and release

Curiosity

It's not even a hunt anymore
Cause I'm not starving
You feed me in many ways 
Only love can 

It's a pure curiosity
A way to be with you
While I'm on my way
My heart is guessing feelings

To dyscover

Measure

Everytime I try to guess your tastes
The favorite flavours of yours
What would you like to eat
To wear
Wich is the rock that you enjoy the most
Mine is saphires, do you like their blues?

I fall in love with the flamboyance

I love the most the lonely part of the self
What you are pleased to do on own
And if you would cherish to share

Because I love very much my time spend alone
My things my way of being

So to share my time

My paradise and to know yours
Create a new loneliness
Or we can call it togetherness

Would do the same

Time can you measure it?
How would you measure it?

I would by time spent loving

sewn

I have you in my heart now
a needlework,
a scar

as I was marked
with iron and fire
in line for the ritual

Sweat, blood and tears
are made as the same 
something was to be written on it

or maybe already is
Is your soul visiting mine
and cheering my spirit?

Because I feel it
the smell, the beat
the light

Freedom

regardless, let loose my poetic soul fool around close to your aura or anybody else in the whole world to express my deepest and spontaneous feelings. Free is the one who are able to say what they feel inside witthout care if the listener will accept, hear or understand, because she knows that her faith is strong enough to transform it into hope and then turn it into real love.

Poemas are birds

The poems are birds arriving

no one knows where and land

in the book you read.

When you close the book, they take flight

as a trapdoor.

They do not have landing

or port;

a second feed at each

pair of hands and run.

And you look, then these your hands empty

marveling in awe of knowledge

that their food was already in you ...

Mario Quintana

Os poemas são pássaros que chegam
não se sabe de onde e pousam
no livro que lês.
Quando fechas o livro, eles alçam vôo
como de um alçapão.
Eles não têm pouso
nem porto;
alimentam-se um instante em cada
par de mãos e partem.
E olhas, então, essas tuas mãos vazias,
no maravilhado espanto de saberes
que o alimento deles já estava em ti...

Mario Quintana

Canção do dia de sempre

Tão bom viver dia a dia...
A vida assim, jamais cansa...

Viver tão só de momentos
Como estas nuvens no céu...

E só ganhar, toda a vida,
Inexperiência... esperança...

E a rosa louca dos ventos
Presa à copa do chapéu.

Nunca dês um nome a um rio:
Sempre é outro rio a passar.

Nada jamais continua,
Tudo vai recomeçar!

E sem nenhuma lembrança
Das outras vezes perdidas,
Atiro a rosa do sonho
Nas tuas mãos distraídas...
Mario Quintana


Song of the day ever

So good to live day to day ...
Life thus never get tired ...

Living so only moments
As these clouds in the sky ...

And only make, whole life,
Inexperience ... hope ...

And the rose crazy winds
Attached to the crown of the hat.

Never give a name to a river:
Always another river to pass.

Nothing ever remains,
Everything will start again!

And no memory
Other times lost,
I shoot a dream's rose
In your distracted hands ...


Mario Quintana

Sonhos -

Sonhei em duas etapas a primeira estava surfando com uns amigos e ficamos ate anoitecer no mar, não sabíamos pra onde voltar. Se imagine no mar a noite. Escuro não dava pra ver nem saber onde ir para onde remar. A água fica escura. Vi barbatanas ao meu redor. Ate que um amigo assumiu a direção e disse vamos nadar reto. Conseguimos nadar com as pranchas ate uma casa na costa onde uns franceses falavam português. E estávamos salvos.
Eu acordei as 5 da manha ensopada de suor. Como se estivesse nadando, e estava também cansada. Todos os meus travesseiros e edredons. E a noite estava fria nada de calor.

Voltei ao sono. E desta vez estava com meu irmão em Londres. Entramos no metro e de repente havia um achado e perdidos de aparelhos e coisas e ficamos la na esteira vendo, eu peguei uma lata de cerveja fechada, mas me dei conta de que não bebo e li o rotulo, Madness. Eu não iria beber aquilo. De repente começamos a seguir uma nascente de água limpa por debaixo da cidade. Era uma corrente de água pura e cristalina. E eu fiquei surpresa de ver aquilo ali embaixo e continuamos seguindo a direção da correnteza. E saímos num parque bem bonito a tonalidade era amarelada. E brincamos como nunca mais havíamos brincado um com o outro. Ele me deixava mais tranquila e calma, me dava confiança. E ele apesar de mais novo era mais seguro que eu. E eu vi a Madonna parar um avião de guerra antigo um teco teco com seus decotes e plumas. Vogue. E ele me disse para seguirmos o rio e deveríamos entrar nele. E a água estava cheia de folhas outonais, ou primaveris. E eu estava com receio de entrar na água ela podia estar clara mas podia mesmo assim não ser limpa. E meu irmão entrou e estendeu os braços para que eu o acompanhasse. E encontramos outros. E lembramos de velhos que nos eram conhecidos e engraçados. Meu irmão parece que gostava de uma menina que estava no grupo. E eu experimentava as coisas. Me deram uma azeitona colhida no pé e ela era salgada. Eu não sabia que a azeitona vinha salgada. E fomos seguindo dentro do Rio brincando e descobrindo coisas novas. Pequenas coisas simples. Acordei suando de novo. Mas mais tranquila. Com vontade de dormir mais.

O peixe não sabe que aquilo que o envolve e' a água..

... Haiku ...

Poet tree
Poet try
Poetry

Poet through

Verse in fall
Verse in Spring

Poet was not made for love
We were made to write

People don't love us
They love what we write

We give them all they need to hear
To pleased their heart
That's the way we egocentricaly please ourselves.

I'm a tree

Quem faz um poema abre uma janela.
Respira, tu que estás numa cela abafada,
esse ar que entra por ela.
Por isso é que os poemas têm ritmo
- para que possas profundamente respirar.
Quem faz um poema salva um afogado.

Mario Quintana

E o que seria sem as doces palavras espalhadas por ai
Decidi também ser, apesar do que se decide, e do que vier
Eu deixo meus frutos doces pendurados em meus galhos
Se se aproximares de mim colherás boas sementes
Sentiras o perfume de uma aura esforçada e animada
Natural - gosto de sol e chuva e deixo também boa sombra para deitar
A primavera nunca saiu de moda, e hoje em dia quem não é arvore
Não sabe aproveitar a leveza do vento
E a companhia dos passarinhos



Who makes a poem opens a window.
Breathes, thou that drowned in a cell,
this air that enters through it.
That is why the poems have rhythm
- So you can breathe deeply.
Who makes a poem saved a drowning man.

Mario Quintana

And it would be without the sweet words scattered all around
I also decided to be, regardless of what you decide, and what comes
I let my sweet fruits hanging from my branches
If you come near me gather good seeds (who ever you are)
May feel the scent of a hardworking and lively aura
Natural - like sun and rain and also leave good shade to lie
The spring has never gone out of fashion, and nowadays who is not a tree
Do not know how to enjoy the lightness of the wind

And the company of birds

The Antique Love - O Antigo Amor - CDA

O amor antigo vive de si mesmo, não de cultivo alheio ou de presença. Nada exige, nem pede. Nada espera, mas do destino vão nega a sentença.  O amor antigo tem raízes fundas, feitas de sofrimento e de beleza. Por aquelas mergulha no infinito, e por estas suplanta a natureza.  Se em toda parte o tempo desmorona aquilo que foi grande e deslumbrante, o antigo amor, porém, nunca fenece e a cada dia surge mais amante.  Mais ardente, mas pobre de esperança. Mais triste? Não. Ele venceu a dor, e resplandece no seu canto obscuro, tanto mais velho quanto mais amor.

O Antigo Amor
* Próprio e compartilhado - altruísta e autossuficiente
- as raízes das arvores se nutrem da terra, da água e do sol
- seiva
- produzem cores, sabores, formas, flores e frutos, sombra - e o que mais o artificie puder imaginar

The Antique Love

The old love lives of himself, not cultivation or alien presence. Nothing requires or asks. Expects nothing but the destination will negate the sentence. The former love has deep roots, made ​​of suffering and beauty. For those immersed in the infinite, and these supersede nature. If everywhere the time collapses what was great and stunning, the old love, however, never dies and comes over every day lover. Most ardent but poor hope. Sadder? No. He won the pain, and shines in its obscure corner, much older the more love.

Carlos Drummond Andrade

let it rain

chove porque as coisas dessa natureza devem recomeçar se renovar
chove também para que os rios possam lavar a terra, ate chegar ao mar
chove porque estava quente e abafado, triste ou apaixonado

chove porque a água precisa subir aos céus de vez em quando para voltar a terra mais divina

Work Hard - and blessing come

It's hard to beat someone who never gives up -

Erro de portugues

Erro de português - Oswald de Andrade

Quando o português chegou
Debaixo de uma bruta chuva
Vestiu o índio
Que pena!
Fosse uma manhã de sol
O índio tinha despido
O português.

Well, now ...

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

If you forget me - NERUDA

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me

NERUDA - IF YOU FORGET ME

Love, understanding, comunication

"Love is a form of conversation in which words act instead of being spoken." D. H. Lawrence

"O amor é uma forma de conversação em que as palavras agem em vez de serem faladas." D. H. Lawrence

Just a poet - Neruda

“Bitter love, a violet with it’s crown of thorns in a thicket of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? what brought you?”

 —  Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

Just a poem

I have you in my heart now
a needlework,
a scar

as I was marked
with iron and fire
in line for the ritual

Sweat, blood and tears
are made as the same 
something was to be written on it

or maybe already is
Is your soul visiting mine
and cheering my spirit?

Because I feel it
the smell, the beat
the light

Bloodstream

We wrote in our blood, we eat, what we feel, what we think. Blood carries all our information throughout the body. He goes everywhere. Energizes the heart. He leads all this energy. Has cellular memory. And when we want to know how our health will do a blood test. All the substances we use it write some experience. He learns that. And that the habit becomes part of you. And so are the emotions and what other people make us feel. It is written there in my bloodstream. Why certain people make us sweat, and accelerate the heartbeat. The chain wants to communicate to the body all that delicious thrill.

Escrevemos em nosso sangue, o que comemos, o que sentimos, o que pensamos. O sangue carrega todas as nossas informações através de todo o corpo. Ele passa por todos os lugares. Se energiza no coração. Ele conduz toda essa energia. Possui memória celular. E quando queremos saber como vai a nossa saúde fazemos exame de sangue. Todas as substancias que utilizamos escrevem nele alguma experiência. Ele aprende aquilo. E aquilo com o hábito vira parte de você. E assim são com as emoções e com o que outras pessoas nos fazem sentir. Está escrito lá em minha corrente sangüínea. Por isso que certas pessoas nos fazem transpirar, e aceleram os batimentos cardíacos. A corrente quer comunicar ao corpo toda aquela deliciosa emoção.

Your laughter

“Take bread away from me, if you wish,

take air away, but

do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,

the lance flower that you pluck,

the water that suddenly

bursts forth in joy,

the sudden wave

of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back

with eyes tired

at times from having seen

the unchanging earth,

but when your laughter enters

it rises to the sky seeking me

and it opens for me all

the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest

hour your laughter

opens, and if suddenly

you see my blood staining

the stones of the street,

laugh, because your laughter

will be for my hands

like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,

your laughter must raise

its foamy cascade,

and in the spring, love,

I want your laughter like

the flower I was waiting for,

the blue flower, the rose

of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,

at the day, at the moon,

laugh at the twisted

streets of the island,

laugh at this clumsy

fool who loves you,

but when I open

my eyes and close them,

when my steps go,

when my steps return,

deny me bread, air,

light, spring,

but never your laughter. ” 

― Pablo Neruda