If one says he got butterflies in his stomach,In my very case, honestly(and indeed, very personally)I'd say there's been a rebellion... and they've taken overThey got me flying high,The colourful wave pulled my hairstringsjust like a puppet,lifted me up in the skydived over skyscrapers,plummeted over scarecrows,delicately hoovered over hay fieldsDunna where I might fall or find a place.(Sh sh sh shThere comes the night ! . . .) Queria eu, 'caso um dia pudesseencher-te do meu mais puro amorpudera eu; quanto mais te queria,com mais ardor ainda te desejaria,e te faria crer a mais colorida corEntao, assim eu te desenharia:com leves tracos de estripulia -e logo a alegria que tu me desteencheria a praca e o ceu de amor...e quanto mais de ti ele se enchesse,viajariamos juntos pela noite friabeijando o sol, quando se pusesse,abracando as estrelas - ah a folia!de amar tudo que na terra cresceou no mar descansa e se arrefece...Por fim, ao encerrar de um longo diadebaixo do manto sereno que desceenquanto a vida de novo adormece -me entrego ao descanso que acaricia,embalada no aconchego do teu calor. (Act One)*dunno if the shadows are wavingor if the houses are just bending asidethere are no lampshades or candles in thestreets no moreOr maybe yes!perhaps the early morning windis moving them to and fro[it's quite windy in this place]- oddly enough,the tree leaves seem quite still;must be an optical illusion(Act Two)moon hanging up high in the skywhite as white can be,and a star hanging from itbouncing from side to sidehappily as a child on her mother's lapmaybe it has already played with the houseand the lampposts?(Act Three)two glasses still in the airquite a photographic momenta snap of timea smell of timeless scentdelicately highlighted bythe moon gazeand its twinking little star(Act Four)they leave the place slowlysay goodbye to the maitrethe chef, the moon,the house, the star and the lamppostthe glasses have stayed behindcaptured in that flash-forward moment(as opposed to a deriding flashback)flashy cristal sprinkling glassthey move on, wine still on lips,arms in arms,under the windy starry night. Suddenly the beginning met the end,in a flash of time,- on the spur of the moment,they knew.Undoubtedly the beginning knew the end,the restart of a time,- the golden stray of memorythey found.And gladly the beginning loved the end,the blossom of stories,- the ultimate achievement then:serenity. A painter's ode to his beloved one.On a white canvasI will paint your portraitswiftly in colours so softbut also in harsh strikesin the open page I will pourall my colours, and my veins,all the pasts and beyonds,with soft whispers sweep the hypesOn a swinging groove I will dancemy hands, and gladly followyour curves, to find your glow,and erase your sorrows;so the artwork that abidesin your inner matching hueswill overflow in gracious pridethat sparks deliciously from you. Sou invadida por uma quase-culpa regularmente. Digo 'quase-culpa' porque nao me doi muito na consciencia, so uns poucos minutos de reflexao apos consumado o ato, e depois passa sem muito disse-me-disse. E regularmente, para ser mais precisa, bem, digo: quase todo fim de semana. E tem sido assim por toda a minha (nao tao)