it's midnight and the wind

is warm, moist

howling at the sills

a few minutes ago i was standing

on a stone pier

watching as a couple of tiny bats

bounced off the surface of the sea

like pebbles

darting to and fro

grasping at tiny fish

yes i have questions and

a number of 

things to say but

nothing feels quite

important

when you're in the

Brine

my mother's mind is

walking out on her,

memories flocking away

survived only by those

too old to fly.

so, last sunday,

for the first time,

she did not know

who i was.

i look at my father, 

who single-handedly tended to all the old women

abandoned by our family 

(until they, inevitably, died)

and i see fear

maybe because he is, himself, very old;

maybe because he is losing his wife

before death do them part.

i am worthless for this world

but i will do what i can and,

if this is meaningful,

then i haven't been for nothing.

the real curse is sentiment

aimless, out of the place

where my heart used to be:

a lingering love,

a beautiful dream and nothing more,

handwriting on old paper.

Eu vejo aquele rio a deslizar

O tempo a atravessar meu vilarejo

E às vezes largo o afazer

Me pego em sonho a navegar

Com o nome Paciência

Vai a minha embarcação

Pendulando como o tempo

E tendo igual destinação

Pra quem anda na barcaça

Tudo, tudo passa

Só o tempo, não

Passam paisagens furta-cor

Passa e repassa o mesmo cais

Num mesmo instante eu vejo a flor

Que desabrocha e se desfaz

Essa é a tua música

É tua respiração

Mas eu tenho só teu lenço em minha mão

Olhando meu navio

O impaciente capataz

Grita da ribanceira

Que navega pra trás

No convés, eu vou sombrio

Cabeleira de rapaz

Pela água do rio que é sem fim

E é nunca mais

(Chico Buarque)