Archives: Órgão de Grafia

[Sorry, only available in portuguese] Estar pronta é alongar debaixo dum poste numa noite escura. Estar pronta é fazer caras a desconhecidos no colo da avó. Estar pronta é levar uma cotovelada, doer e continuar. Estar pronta é vestir um…

Night fell and caught you off guard in your wish. The rain and wind clean up the remains of the work that remain spread on the floor. With the light in your head, you avoid obstacles and prepare tomorrow. Subsistence…

Invisible, the mantle falls in the hours and, stumbling, we try to raise the cloudy path in its dignity. The hours also fall, extraordinary, with an aroma of exception, slowness and duty. Companions of isolation, these hours inevitably drag us…

One hand and the other touch. One does not live without recognizing the other. There is complicity in this gesture. They get involved and dedicate their time to each other in choreographic movements. Protect a part to protect the whole….

There are days that don’t end, there are days when sleep doesn’t come. There are days that slowly diffuse on other days and dreams are stolen. There are weeks that are days, confusing the calendar of human reason. And when…

The moon caught fire tonight. Has its own light and illuminates lost causes. Today is not goddess neither satellite, not old, neither young. Tired of showing the same face as ever, she undresses for those who want to see her…

Image of the first edition in catalan of the flyers Summer poems, of the Season poems collection, for the the performance Cordel by Teresa Santos / Poeta de Gandia.

Words are not definitive: their meaning, spelling or composition. A capital word may suddenly lose importance and become small. If there is a hierarchy in words. Words should not be read or heard as absolute truths. Words are not tattoos.

A boat under the sea is always a disaster, no boat was born to sink. However, when it is crossed by time, there is a beauty in it that comes from catastrophe. Time changes the look of things.

There is an open window that does not close. A breeze that disturbs the sight that does not end. Beyond, in infinity, the tangible dream subjects itself to the impermanence of days and nights. Time passes, absorbed in the illusion…

From day to day I see my hand grow and the cells that multiply in this ode to the triumph of life. From day to day I see my foot growing, and the paths I have gone before have now…

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