26.5.08
they are just a whisper in time
all those things that never came to be,
they are just a whisper in time
a whisper in time, a whisper in time
things that I can't shake from my mind
a whisper in time, a whisper in time
moments that just flicker and die
all those places I wanted to go,
they are just a whisper in time
all those friends who now I do not know,
they are just a whisper in time
a whisper in time, a whisper in time
moments I can't shake from my mind
a whisper in time, a whisper in time
memories that flicker and die
maps and roads that brought me here today,
they are just a whisper in time
circumstances that were explained away,
they are just a whisper in time
a whisper in time, a whisper in time
things that I can't shake from my mind
a whisper in time, a whisper in time
moments that just flicker and die
because we are messengers of memory,
just whispers in time.
(O video é só mesmo para se ouvir a música.)
24.5.08
Manifesto Bigodista
(Homenagem ao Mestre Chalana)
Nós!
Os saturados da ausência de pelos faciais!
Os cativos do caos bigodal!
Os vanguardistas da revolta capilar!
Os membros da equipa técnica do Benfica SAD!
As minhotas! Saturadas da tirania da cera!
Os seres cujas veias rebentam de testosterona!
Os amantes da bejeca e do minuim!
Os argutos da farfalheira supralabial!
Proclamamos a era do bigode. Em que o novo tuga é soberano; Rei Supremo!
Basta de carinhas de bebé inocente! Basta de bigodinhos estilizados! Viva a velha e farta bigodaça! Viva o fato-treine! Urre!
Ê-lá-ôôô! Basta PUM Basta!
Que a sopa fique presa na pelugem, que os cigarros tinjam de palha dourada os mais distintos bigodes!
Reclamamos a higiene do bigode: uma escovinha e uma tesoura de APARAR em cada esquina, ao serviço do bigodão!
Abaixo a gilette! Queimem os barbeiros! Definhem as mousses! Que sequem os after-shaves (essa estrangeirada!)
Basta de recriminação! Basta PUM Basta!
Basta de descriminação! Basta PUM Basta!
O bigode é um organismo vivo, tem classe! Memória! Dignidade! Qual armazém de mantimentos, onde a ASAE não manda!
Liberdade de expressão bigodal! Avante! Não deixem matar a tasca, camaradas da bigodaça, pois é o seu habitat natural!
Salvem o bigode da extinção! Arre, porra! Merda! Já!
E agora o Tom Selleck só para termos uma noção do que está em risco!
14.5.08
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.
Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
Rings will vanish from our noses,
And the harnesses from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
And cruel whips no more shall crack.
Riches more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.
Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for our freedom's sake.
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well and spread my tidings
Of the golden future time.
by Old Major
George Orwell, in "Animal Farm"
10.5.08
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
7.5.08
Déjà la vie ardente incline vers le soir,
Respire ta jeunesse,
Le temps est court qui va de la vigne au pressoir,
De l'aube au jour qui baisse.
Garde ton âme ouverte aux parfums d'alentour,
Aux mouvements de l'onde,
Aime l'effort, l'espoir, l'orgueil, aime l'amour,
C'est la chose profonde ;
Combien s'en sont allés de tous les coeurs vivants
Au séjour solitaire,
Sans avoir bu le miel ni respiré le vent
Des matins de la terre,
Combien s'en sont allés qui ce soir sont pareils
Aux racines des ronces,
Et qui n'ont pas goûté la vie où le soleil
Se déploie et s'enfonce !
Ils n'ont pas répandu les essences et l'or
Dont leurs mains étaient pleines,
Les voici maintenant dans cette ombre où l'on dort
Sans rêve et sans haleine.
- Toi, vis, sois innombrable à force de désirs,
De frissons et d'extase,
Penche sur les chemins, où l'homme doit servir,
Ton âme comme un vase ;
Mêlée aux jeux des jours, presse contre ton sein
La vie âpre et farouche ;
Que la joie et l'amour chantent comme un essaim
D'abeilles sur ta bouche.
Et puis regarde fuir, sans regret ni tourment,
Les rives infidèles,
Ayant donné ton coeur et ton consentement
A la nuit éternelle...
