before it ends

since I have questions to your answers,
you may have asked me once again: 
do we have destinies or chances,
or are we destined to remain
kids of the village, generation
producing children feeling lost
with endless search of inspiration,
knowing cost

or are we happy. are they happy,
do they know what happy means
or do we lose it all, unwrapping
barriers behind the scenes
while we are sitting in the kitchen
where, by the way, the tea got cold,
i see your fingertips are itching, 
uncontrolled

the generation feeling dizzy
from words like “settle down” or “stop”
this life was never getting easy
with stairs not leading to the top
while making candles for the soldiers
who have forgotten how to pray,
instead of wiser we get older
day by day

when every modern influencer
will have noone to influence,
we might come down to circumstances
when humans get a second chance
and someone honest and imperfect
will take the world with bare hands
and shake us up until we’re worth it,
before it ends

Carmen

Carmen smells incense, speaks stories and tongues,
colors the sunset of Praia
raindrops and waterfalls splash in her lungs,
voice we have come to admire

harsh like the waves that are licking the shore,
rough like the coastline of Lisbon
proverbs and idioms, songs and folklore
whisper to enter and listen:

you are the ocean,
i am the coast
pick up the potion
you like the most
you are the sailor,
surfing the tides
show me where your power hides

colorful dresses and cashmere shawls,
Carmen’s the queen of this city
waving the songs into branches and shores,
yarns very random and pretty

greeting the strangers and hugging the friends,
blessing the sailors and divers
talking the world into making amends,
trading the shawls for survivors

you are the ocean,
i am the coast
pick up the potion
you like the most
you are the sailor,
surfing the tides
show me where your power hides

on purpose

i can learn nine languages
i can travel eighteen countries
or all seven continents
and even discover an eighth one
but i cannot jump over this fence

i can build stars from scratch
write dozens of songs and release albums
promote hundreds of jazz gigs
give handkerchiefs to the people crying
but i cannot erase a fake smile from this face

i can draw a bright blue sky on canvas
i can make you hear the birds singing
i can create any sun you’d like
even if there’s none up there
but i cannot make the deaf hear it out

i can bring you pink sunglasses 
to help you see there’s no dead end
that there’s no end whatsoever
i can bring all my friends to become your friends
but i cannot make you see if your eyes are black

maybe that fence doesn’t even look that high
even if i am barefoot and my feet are bleeding
but what if i look closer and there’s a brick wall behind it
what if you kept building it on purpose
brick by brick

weightless

my backpack weighs eleven pounds, 
and i have walked a life
escaped from promises and hounds,
have sharpened mind and knife,

stopped hiding in the plainest sight, 
untied my heavy boots
and left with vision that i might
get rid of attributes

found places empty to arrive,
the ones too hard to reach,
since i am very much alive
and very young to preach,

for lessons i have paid with mud
that covered me to head
escaped the gods to be a god
among the living dead

so when we’re talking, you should know:
you’re technically rich
look at the stones you left below
eleven lifetimes each

i hope you’ve come to be no fool
and leave no trace or scar
remember: there is no rule.
i’ll see you at the bar

Creator

in the darkest of ultimate possible depths
there’s an infinite centre of growth
if the planet is ready to slowly collapse, 
then the question is whether you quit, or perhaps
keep on playing — and learn from them both

if the number of words ever outflows the time,
we are left with a reason to live
and a reason to finally drop off the dime,
and a reason to surely remember that i’m
always willing to hope and forgive

that’s too bad we are often not having enough
solid chances to prove we exist
but it’s thanks to the mess and the darkness and huff
our spines do get stronger and perfectly tough,
and the hurricanes having them kissed

who was kissed by the wind, he is ready to go,
he’s more ready than anyone else
he might seem just a shadow a second ago,
you might even not notice his dim afterglow,
but you’ll feel irresistible spells

they will tell you the names hoarsely whispered by wind,
they will mention you probably can
also follow the steps of the razored and thinned
ones who often accept they’ve mistaken and sinned,
so are free to let go of the plan, —

and the freedom is golden. you suddenly learn
you are able to outgrow your fate
with the light that has given you blisters and burns,
through the clouds, that are roughly excessively torn,
you are standing to love and Create

hopekeepers

when there’s a hopekeeper there’s hope
not necessarily too large
i think you’ve noticed that to cope
means very often undercharge – 
that’s when the ones we briefly meet
come with their very tiny plants
that grew from miniature seeds
extracted out of our “i can’t”

so then they water them with hope,
and very often only one,
that is too small for microscopes, 
but good enough to weigh a ton
the scale is measured in our will, 
and on the range from one to shit
we’ll nail it if we got the skill
of giving hope a double knit

one day the hopekeepers will meet
in order to discuss their seeds
some very fragile and dicreet, 
the others – steady to exceed
shamans by nature, they will raise
their glasses full of human aims
that’s not too pricey nowadays – 
the hopes are mostly all the same

so there’s an orchestra of life, 
and they sit in to make a sound
and you can join with paperknife
or any instrument around
just listening would also do, 
as long as you recall the score
of being confident and true
and little better than before

warrior

swim, lonely warrior, swim as you can
waters are purple and silent
shores yet unknown to both vessels and me
aren’t necessarily violent

swim even when forces leave you alone – 
lonely means free end empowered
train up those muscles of cement and stone,
they will be keeping you covered

train not because you get ready to fight – 
exercise courage and power
under your skin i have watered the light,
should be enough for your flowers

you really are what you think long before
taking a look in the mirror
prior they call you and bang at your door,
visions are stable and clear

prior they judge you, the world’s at your feet
landmarks of butterfly feathers
song you are writing is constantly hit
people are singing together

paperships soak and creations emerge
out of your infinite fear
swim, lonely warrior, unless on the verge
confidence knocking appears 

love letter (from a writer)

if it’s hard to get over it inside my head, there is yours now.
when i’m done with my struggles, the space there is ready for love
so if home can be anything sheltered and anything cozy,
welcome home. i will hang there the curtains and flowers above

welcome home. this is not a reward for your tryouts and patience,
this is rather agreement we both would be better this way
‘cause i knew on my own how to deal with the most situations,
i just had no idea it’s brighter with someone to stay

the alternative to overcome is accept and get lighter
stop demanding and appreciate, i’m reminding myself
there are no recipes for devoted and passionate writers —
we are made for experiencing stories to treasure and delve

since you’ve met me, you’re definitely, definitely part of the story,
co-creator of something that many will afterwards hear
if my heart is a wild pinewood forest, a large territory,
there are trees you can plant there and birds you can put there, my dear

taking care of the birds and the trees is the path i have chosen — 
may those choices be something i never regret, for a start
i’m not sure what a home is, — i’ve had them a couple or dozen, — 
but our story has made me to shyly inhabit your heart

let go

in the backyard of my ship
there’s a tiny wooden elf
pretty confident and hip,
all immersing in itself

little elf, we’ve met before
maybe previous of lives
i remember wooden door
he who enters it survives

just like Hatter, equal mad,
i was drinking up the jars,
overthinking all i had,
faintly dreaming of the stars

you were wise, i dare to guess,
very likely to let go,
not attached to emptiness,
holding strings of puppet show

teeny tiny puppet men,
all precisely at your hand
are you sure you really can
make them work at your command

sails need mending, men will work,
knots of real human veins
dressed up well to build a cirque
heavens know what it contains

i’ve the scissors, you shall know,
one, two, three, and strings will rip
each of them deserves to go
you deserve to get some sleep

life

there comes a day we mostly fear,
the one that’s dreadful and unclear,
one day we finish to exist – 
that’s on the list

when inevitably it comes
there’ll be no orchestra and drums,
and we’re not sure of afterlife, 
if we survive

so when we end up, will there be
someone who cares to disagree
that all we’ve done will disappear,
noone to hear?

will they be framing our halls
will they hang posters on the walls 
and a museum of our past
be there to last?

or will the wallpapers be torn,
demolished walls to never mourn
and turned in office blocks instead,
when we’ll be dead?

when we hold time with bare hands,
it burns the skin, and skin expands, 
and we are able to contain
both past and pain

so through the bruises hope we can
preserve the memory of man,
of every soul who did the things
that touched the strings

and since it’s always not too late, 
we still can treasure and create,
so when we’re done, someone is there
to save and share