Sem título #308

We miss them...

Retirado do contexto #417

Opheem

Espantos #659

Does not seem like a wise choice to take a nap...

Caprichos #411

Hot chocolate (loaded) with cream and marshmallows

Primavera #169

Manhã de Abril em flor

Sem título #307

Some times it's a sequence...

Caprichos #410

Delicious apfelstrudel in Frankfurt

Coisas bonitas #132

Santo António

Igreja de Santo António dos Portugueses em Roma

Basílica de Santa Maria dos Anjos e dos Mártires em Roma

Palavras lidas #547

(Não é bem, mas é o que se pode arranjar)

Paper-White Narcissus
by Lisel Mueller

Strange, how they got their name—
a boy, barely a man,
looked into sunlit water
and saw himself so beautiful
he spent his life pursuing
that treacherous reflection.
There is no greater loneliness.

Here they are, risen
from the darkness of the pebbled pool
we have made for them in a dish—
risen and broken through
the long, green capsules
to show us their faces:

they are so delicate they invite
protection or violation,
and they are blind.

Ditto #546

Those who prefer their principles over their happiness, they refuse to be happy outside the conditions they seem to have attached to their happiness.

--Albert Camus

Coisas bonitas #131

Foi tanta a ventania dos últimos dias

que as coitadas tombaram

e tiveram de ser salvas para uma jarra

dentro de casa.

Sem título #306

At least it orbits...

Coisas bonitas #130

De 10 tulipas no ano passado saltámos para 17 este ano

Coisas que não mudam #619

Aves

que mudam as penas

que se equilibram perfeitamente numa só pata

ou que dormem ao sol

Primavera #168

Primavera pelo campus

Coisas bonitas #129

Tulipas que esperaram pelo meu regresso...

Sem título #305

Time away...

Palavras lidas #546

The Lost Land
by Eavan Boland

I have two daughters.

They are all I ever wanted from the earth.

Or almost all.

I also wanted one piece of ground:

One city trapped by hills. One urban river.
An island in its element.

So I could say mine. My own.
And mean it.

Now they are grown up and far away

and memory itself
has become an emigrant,
wandering in a place
where love dissembles itself as landscape:

Where the hills
are the colours of a child's eyes,
where my children are distances, horizons:

At night,
on the edge of sleep,

I can see the shore of Dublin Bay.
Its rocky sweep and its granite pier.

Is this, I say
how they must have seen it,
backing out on the mailboat at twilight,

shadows falling
on everything they had to leave?
And would love forever?
And then

I imagine myself
at the landward rail of that boat
searching for the last sight of a hand.

I see myself
on the underworld side of that water,
the darkness coming in fast, saying
all the names I know for a lost land:

Ireland. Absence. Daughter.

Espantos #658

Sinagoga Shaaré Tikvá de Lisboa

Ditto #545

Without music life would be a mistake.

--Friedrich Nietzsche