Baladas...
Já tinha saudades de uma balada lamechas e esta...está mesmo no ponto!!
There she goes once again,
The ghost of our love, it's making me shiver,
It's only small drops of pain,
But even the rain can turn into rivers,
Thought I'd be safe, living behind this wall,
But the pressures too much, and it's starting to fall.
So how do I get over you,
How do I survive living half the life that I knew,
Oh how do I get over you?
When you take away
Everything I held to be true,
I wonder if you feel it too, do you?
Everywhere that I turn, there's something there,
Something to remind me,
When I sleep it's alone, still I reach out,
As if you're beside me,
Thought I'd be safe,
I tried to find something new,
But everything that I did,
Is something we used to do.
Seems like every place, every person we knew,
Every sound every taste, reminds me of you,
I thought this would be gone, but it's still so strong,
I keep holding on, what else can I do?
Lee Ryan - "How do I"Abraços Grandes
Há coisas...
que de tão inesperadas serem só com algum esforço não nos quebram as defesas.
Hoje ouvi algo assim que me tocou como ninguém pode imaginar e me emocionou, e me fez pensar que, apesar de tudo, tem sido um ano espectacular:
"Até vou sentir a tua falta quando te fores embora!"
Só isto já me fez ganhar o dia e muito mais...
Abrações Grandões
Isto não passa de um simples ansiar, um simples esperar que parece nunca mais aparecer
Isto não é mais do que um tempo morto que há-de ser compensado, bem gasto e aproveitado
Isto é algo que vai cansando não extenua de imediato, vai andando não tem um tempo exacto
Isto é simplesmente um aglomerado de situações aparentemente inúteis, sem significados ou soluções
Aparentemente, isto é como um ser discreto embrenhado no seu viver, como um feto que espera nascer
Isto é só e unicamente o que fazemos disto, o que vemos, o que pensamos, o que nós percepcionamos
De tanta ambiguidade não sei o que fazer com isto, vejo-me a braços com isto sem aparente utilidade
O que é isto...pergunto-me constante e insistentemente
Será produto da minha peculiar mente, ou algo real e tangente?
O que é isto? Um reflexo do que já fui, já senti, fiz ou pensei?
O que é isto...muito sinceramente...não sei...
Abrações
I am...
The lonely tree outside my window letting itself bend by the ever blowing wind
The cloud floating up above, shaped in whatever shape its heart dictates
The pebble in the stream through which the water runs its course
The foam of the waves, sweeping the sand to refresh its grains
The flap of a bird's wing as it soars up to reach the sun
The air in a breath by a baby, inhaling for the first time
The sound waves of a scream, as a man claims for his freedom
The tear on the cheek of a person crying for no reason
The drop of blood by a papercut on the hand of a poet
The particule of dust floating dazed as a sun ray crosses its way
...I am anything you name, at any place, at any time...
I'm free...I can be what I want to be...
V for Vendetta 2
Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, as the once vital voice of the verisimilitude now venerates what they once vilified. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose vis-à-vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.
Voilá!!
The power of ideas...
Only ideals last...
Abrações Grandões
V for Vendetta
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot
....
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
..."Ideas are bulletproof"
Magnífico...
Abrações Grandões
