Poetry {in Portuguese}
…or in the language that glides through my fingers, today, tomorrow, no matter
where I am or how the wind blows.
It has always been so: words, words and more words, written here and there,
gone lost with the time, forgotten, loose papers, marginal scribbles on books, magazines, supposed dead things, or really dead, well, maybe better, the most
making no sense any more, just a few survived and - here you are.
After so much to-and-fro out there, similar to some epiphytal plants or migrating
birds, half rootless or with no feeling for nest, I’m not a great believer. I’ve been learning that the most reasonable attitude is not to cultivate any kind of fetishism associated with languages… the first, the second, the third - who cares?