Liberty

On my notebooks from school

On my desk and the trees

On the sand on the snow

I write your name

On every page read

On all the white sheets

Stone blood paper or ash

I write your name

On the golden images

On the soldier’s weapons

On the crowns of kings

I write your name

On the jungle the desert

The nests and the bushes

On the echo of childhood

I write your name

On the wonder of nights

On the white bread of days

On the seasons engaged

I write your name

On all my blue rags

On the pond mildewed sun

On the lake living moon

I write your name

On the fields the horizon

The wings of the birds

On the windmill of shadows

I write your name

On each breath of the dawn

On the ships on the sea

On the mountain demented

I write your name

On the foam of the clouds

On the sweat of the storm

On dark insipid rain

I write your name

On the glittering forms

On the bells of colour

On physical truth

I write your name

On the wakened paths

On the opened ways

On the scattered places

I write your name

On the lamp that gives light

On the lamp that is drowned

On my house reunited

I write your name

On the bisected fruit

Of my mirror and room

On my bed’s empty shell

I write your name

On my dog greedy tender

On his listening ears

On his awkward paws

I write your name

On the sill of my door

On familiar things

On the fire’s sacred stream

I write your name

On all flesh that’s in tune

On the brows of my friends

On each hand that extends

I write your name

On the glass of surprises

On lips that attend

High over the silence

I write your name

On my ravaged refuges

On my fallen lighthouses

On the walls of my boredom

I write your name

On passionless absence

On naked solitude

On the marches of death

I write your name

On health that’s regained

On danger that’s past

On hope without memories

I write your name

By the power of the word

I regain my life

I was born to know you

And to name you

LIBERTY

Paul Eluard

In the back of my mind there´s a place we go
It´s that soft fold in time
Where the sky kisses the sea
Unmediocre times
Of cartoon animations
And cotton candy dreams
Of one who never knew
How plain life would be.
Some dirt on the left knee
And that feeling of fulfillment
That noone with birthdays adding up to a two digit number
Will ever feel again
Grape popsicle stains
All over the mouth and clothes
Invincibility.

Meet me in the trenches
I'll be wearing nothing but a heart full of gold

O homem

Juntos por destino ou necessidade
Abro a palma da mão. Estendo minhas sementes.
Você as agarra e engole com desespero infatil.
Frágil.
Sua dor pelo mundo é a soma de todas as dores.
Sua vida teve muitos pares de pôr-do-sol, nem todos visíveis. Alguns foram encobertos pelo seu próprio dedão em frente ao rosto.
Você sangra o tempo todo.
Eu dôo.
Amarrados um ao outro
Não se pode dizer qual sangue é qual, qual dor, qual lágrima.
Eu crio asas.
Você voa.
Vai se banhar nas águas frescas do novo.
Eu sou engolida pelos restos.

O homem
(alternate version)

Unidos por matéria invisível que vem de dentro do estômago.
Laço inevitável.
Minhas sementes dispostas em punhados, disponíveis.
Você ri.
Agarra punhado por punhado e atira ao chão.
Riso infantil.
Seus dias são como os de qualquer um: uns de sol, outros cor de concreto. E são nesses últimos que o sol sente uma espécie de arrependimento por não ter brilhado pra você.
Seu sangue é oco, não tem hemácias ou plasma.
E o motivo pelo qual você sangra é um dos grandes mistérios da natureza.
Eu, com as asas atrofiadas, nunca aprendi a voar.
Me sento na plateia junto ao sol.

Acordo no meio da noite e vejo que a gente esqueceu o abajour ligado. Você dorme de costas pra mim, tremendo de vez em quando porque sonha com alguma coisa incrível que eu vou saber de manhã.

Olho pro seu cabelo, sua nuca, suas costas. Tudo lá: cada marquinha, espinha, pintas, pelinhos. Até uma cicatrizinha estranha de não sei qual das suas vidas. Costas de mapa mundi, todas as montanhas e rios e mares e países e vegetações. Vestígios de civilizações muito mais avançadas que a nossa.

Beijo suas costas com um carinho de fim do mundo. Volto a dormir. Torcendo pra que aquela cicatriz seja nossa.

"Tranquil as a sage and gentle as one who’s cursed. I said:
I love you, oh my beauty, my charmer

many a time
your debauches without thirst, your soul-less loves,
your longing for the infinite
which proclaims itself everywhere, even in evil,

your bombs, knives, victory marches, public feasts,
your melancholy suburbs,
your furnished rooms,
your gardens full of sighs and intrigue,
your churches vomiting prayer as music,
your childish despairs, mad hags’ games,
your discouragements:

and your fireworks, eruptions of joy,
that make the dumb and gloomy sky smile.
Your venerable vice dressed in silk,
and laughable virtue, with sad gaze,
gentle, delighting in the luxury it shows.

Your saved principles and flouted laws,
your proud monuments on which mists catch,
your metal domes the sun inflames,
your theatrical queens with seductive voices,
your tocsins, cannon, deafening orchestra,
your magic cobbles heaped as barricades,

your petty orators’ swollen rhetoric,
preaching love, while your sewers run with blood,
rushing towards Hell like the Orinoco’s flood,

your angels, your fresh clowns in ancient rags.
Angels dressed in gold, purple and hyacinth,
O you, bear witness that I’ve discharged my task,
like a perfect alchemist like a sainted soul.

From every thing I’ve extracted the quintessence,

you gave me your mud and I’ve turned it into gold."

Charles Baudelaire - Draft Epilogue for the Second Edition on Le Fleurs Du Mal