sábado, 28 de junho de 2008


There is sorrow in the black of your eyes, my love. But in the green that surrounds that black, I see tenderness. There is sadness in the whiteness of your skin, my sweet. But in its white silkiness I find warmth.
I can’t watch you leave again and yet, I know you’ll never leave. The simple thought of it, though, brings me agony. I can’t stay and watch you go; I can’t go and leave you here. Life will go on, whether or not I’m here or you’re here. But love will not, that is my grief, love will not go on if one of us is gone.
There is sorrow in the black of your eyes, my love. There is something I can’t explain, which grows deep inside you and slowly shows its face through your sweet dark eyes. There is sadness in the white of your skin, my sweet. There is a subtle emptiness to your touch that brings back memories of when you weren’t here.

quinta-feira, 26 de junho de 2008


I am now in the darkest night
looking for you
of whom there’s no sight…
life is through,
at least for you…
then why does it feel
like without you nothing’s real?
You bathed my soul in sweetest light
with your love, wisdom and care…
as sure as clouds are white,
I knew you’d always be there.
Loved one,
dearest departed,
you’ve taken my sun,
my life is now unguarded…
God knows I want you back!
In my heart lies a void
whirling, twisting, hurting
in oh so many shades of black.
Feel my sorrow,
but on it do not dwell…
I’ll miss you forever,
your tenderness was a spell.
Love eternal I send to you,
token of words unspoken
of what I couldn’t see through,
of all my sweet memories…
of you.

quarta-feira, 11 de junho de 2008


"eu nasci do amor que há entre Deus e o Diabo"

- Cântico Negro, José Régio

Não o seremos todos?

Quem de nós pode alguma vez afirmar que não é igualmente fruto deste amor?


que ninguém nota que existo,
que sou invisível aos olhos do mundo,
que não se preocupam comigo,
mesmo quem se diz meu amigo.
Talvez a culpa seja minha,
que não desabafo o que sinto.
Mas eu não sou assim,
não consigo falar do que vem cá dentro
como quem fala do filme do momento.
que tenho este dom maldito
de magoar quem mais amo
por não falar no que sinto.
que estou sempre a encher,
mas que um dia irei explodir,
porque quando preciso chorar,
tenho que mascarar-me, e sorrir.
que ninguém me conhece,
que ninguém sabe quem na realidade sou.
quem estou só a todo o momento,
que ninguém gosta de mim.
Pois ninguém sabe quem sou...
que vou estar sempre isolada,
esquecida no meu canto,
e não vão servir de nada
as longas noites de pranto.



restos de uma paixão.
chamas frias
que aquecem meu coração.
do amor uma ilusão,
da dor apenas recordação.
temporais calmos
de sentimentos revolvidos,
de mágoas revividas,
de amores perdidos,
de paixões esquecidas!
Beijos na escuridão,
lembranças estilhaçadas,
ilusões quebradas!
esperanças esquecidas,
memórias revoltadas.
de algo estranho,
daqueles teus olhos
com que tanto sonho.


quinta-feira, 5 de junho de 2008

The Maiden Freya - Prologue

Once upon a time, in a land of princes and magic, there was a young maiden whose fate, foreseen by prophetic eyes and spoken of by prophetic lips, was that of greatness and yet, of misfortune. The foretold future was not at all unchangeable, but almost certain to become true in every way. The place of love in the young maiden’s life was yet to be known, for the blessed prophet was not to reveal the source of such happiness and grief that would come to her along her path.

This maiden’s name was that of the beauty of the day and the shine of the stars, and inspired verses to poets and bards at the sound of it, equally inspiring the heat of passion into their hearts at the sole sight of her. Thus, she was called after a divine woman of the elders, the ancient ones, and justice was done to that honour-filled name, for our maiden lived up to the reputation of the original bearer of such name. That name was the one given to the fair goddess of the northern lands, Freya.

Freya was the Nordic goddess of love, beauty, music, spring, flowers, and such things. She was particularly protective of the Elven race, being many times called Mother of the Elves.

Unlike the goddess she was named after, though, our maiden had broad locks of black silky hair and eyes as green as the ocean and the treetops. For Freya, the deity, was a red-haired woman and possessed deep blue sweet eyes. Those of the maiden Freya were sharp and big, liquid as the waters they had stolen their colour from. One could have been easily lost in those overwhelming eyes, just like the sailor would so easily lose himself in the seas because of the song of the sirens. Singing was, indeed, one of her many gifts, but of those we shall speak later.