Relógio de Rua

ELE                                                                                                   ELA

Os ponteiros já apontam                                  O relógio da rua já acerta
A hora de maior pesar,                                      O que tento não despertar,
Quando a solidão chega                                     Mas ao desviar as cortinas,
E não deixa descansar.                              Todas as ilusões parecem espreitar.
Encosto o seu peso                                               A testa cedo descansa
À árvore que costumas galar                             Na janela que uso para sonhar,
Fogem-lhes frios prateados                              Os olhos caem sob a árvore,
Aqueles de que costumavas falar.         Onde uma sombra costumo imaginar.
Procuro as cortinas azuladas                              E aqueles fios prateados
Fugindo do teu vago olhar,                                  De que tanto costumava falar,
A luz do quarto abraça a silhueta,                     Não passava de esperança
Que todas as noites tento decorar.                    Da tua atenção captar.
Vagueias em pensamentos                                   Abandono a leve sombra,
Que tanto desejava adivinhar,                             Tal como te deveria deixar,
Sei que não tocam em mim,                                 Revela-se mais que difícil,
E que bem longe deveria estar.           Sabendo que também não estás a tentar

 

Creations

The two lamps near her window were off, due to some constructions on the street. The noise wasn’t a problem. The lack of light was. It annoyed her at first. She couldn’t observe in detail the group of drunk people shouting, nor the shade of a sleeping homeless. She wondered about him. The homeless. That one in specific. He never bothered anyone, never asked for anything. He just sat there, in the usual place. Alone. With every possible reason not to be okay. Yet, he smiled. A genuine, even smile. She had passed him two times already. Not that he would probably notice, at least that was what she thought. It wasn’t planned, but right before crossing his path for the third time in less than one hour, she realized he would see her a fourth. On her way back home. When she came back he didn’t even moved the pleading cup to her, only his eyes. She kneeled before him. ‘Would you like a doughnut?’. A whispered ‘yes’ between a smile conquered her. Completely. She ended giving him the full bag. Totally out of the plan. He didn’t need to thank her. Again, he surprised her with his ‘Merci’. Lighter than a feather she flied home, licking the sugared fingers of the only doughnut she was happier than ever to have. This memory brought another one, and another one. The saddest. While crossing a busy bridge, in a very beautiful day. A homeless was writing in a piece of paperboard ‘Smile, There are worse things in life. Just look at me’. She remembers everyone stopping. Reading it. No words, but looks of pity were shared. Tears quickly spread in her eyes. She couldn’t possibly know back then. But she did now. The worse things in life are not things. They are people and their absence. And feelings upon feelings and the invisible expedition to make them disappear. The silver lighted moon perfectly filled her blank stare. Near the tree was a shadow. A figure. It was a person, perhaps a creation of her mind. She didn’t know for sure. But in her head, it held her tears. And in that moment she wasn’t alone. Time to close the curtains to finally fall asleep, in the imaginary embrace. Of the creation of her own mind.

The pub on the corner

There’s a pub on the corner
And I know what I’m going to find
Sad people who are barely dressed
But keep wearing a smile-
Looking everyone in the eye-
Not allowing people to escape-
From the small conversation
That almost sounds taped.

Ladies cross their bare legs,
And intentionally loudly laugh
the cup of wine that fills their hands-
Is used to fulfil the missing half.
When there’s no football game running,
And a guy is there by himself,
His problems are drunk off
Until his only worry lays in the empty shelf.
And those habitual clients,
who already have beer in their veins
can barely walk to the counter
But the usual order remains.

There’s a pub on every corner
In this city of empty souls
And I wonder if what this city gives
Is better than what it stole.