Álvaro Éfe

Writing poems again.
Makes me wonder where I’m at…
Feels therapeutic in a way
but there’s always a caveat.

When all is good I cannot write,
so if I can, then something’s off.
I can’t tell what, try as I might,
I‘m just uneasy with my thoughts

Fighting windmills every day
in the name of what, I cannot say.

I miss the strength that I once had
and wish I knew why I was mad

Alone I stay, my screen all dark:
no text, no call, no love, no art

Is it me? What could I do?
Sometime I wish that I was you

Em diferentes situações,
os efeitos do silencio mudam.

Indiferente e sem ação,
fico em silencio feito mudo.

Jogo mensagens ao mar,
e olho o horizonte vazio.

O mar as leva pra ninguém,
e não vejo ninguém descendo o Rio.

Meu amor faz um bolo por semana,
é bolo de laranja, é bolo de banana.

Meu amor faz um bolo por semana
é bolo de cenoura, é bolo de banana

Meu amor quer me engordar,
ela não consegue parar;
Porque ela ama misturar
farinha, ovos e açúcar.

Bota um pouco de manteiga;
bate tudo bem ligeira;
deixa o forno aquecido;
que o bolo fica lindo.

Meu amor faz um bolo por dia
é brownie de chocolate, é blondie de baunilha.

Meu amor faz um brownie por dia,
é um ritmo frenético, ela esta enlouquecida.

E depois de feito o bolo,
ainda tem o novo engodo:
Nas prateleiras e na pia,
toda louça encardida.

Sujou a louça inteira,
todos os copos e a batedeira,
tá com farinha no cabelo,
eu vou lavar o dia inteiro.

Eu nem vi acontecer,
que eu caí por você.

Ia correndo pro teu quarto,
pra fazer nem sei o quê.

Eu nem vi acontecer.

Via você me chamar,
e eu correndo pra chegar

Vi chegando um avião,
para a gente viajar.

Vi eu mesmo apaixonar.

You long for lightness,
though it, itself,
is free from longing.

You crave lightness,
though freedom from craving
is what it’s made of.

You want, and you ask for lightness.
But in wanting it, in craving it,
in longing for it, there is weight.

Free yourself from want,
no longer wish for,
and instead just be light.

Love swells, it’s true, 
but then it comes crashing down.

Like all the waves, of all the seas, 
of all possible earths.

And we are entitled to nothing.

No explanation will be given,
and we mustn’t long for one,

No warning will come before,
and still we must prepare well.

For the iminent crash on the shore,
but mostly for the swell.

Vem de longe,
vem bem rápido.

O teu sussuro,
viaja em elétrons.

Não sei se o perco,
ou invisto.

Se te dou o que tenho,
ou desperdiço.

Se essa decisão é sábia
ou se é vã.

Dou-lhe o que sobra.
Para mim: o amanhã.

And even though she looked like she’d be another one of those, the ones that get confused as soon as something starts working out, still I couldn’t help but drift towards her, as always. 

I’ve always liked women like these, how they speak, the way they see the world, what they leave unspoken, their slow walks, how they undress. I’m drawn to that, like an insect flies into an open flame. 

Things will be over in a minute, but I pay no mind. I’d still have that over having nothing at all. How empty must life get if you remove failure, right? It’s no problem having problems. 

Still, this one, she looked specially beastly, bloody eyes and a crooked half smile. She’ll eat me up for sure, I thought, but it’ll be fun for a while, maybe it’ll even be nice for a while, and then it will hurt for a while, and then there’ll be nothing. 

And then I’ll fly again.
Onwards and upwards.
Towards that open flame.

Unbent, unbound
unbroken, unloved.

Free and bare,
but barren and scared.

In this here our daily lives,
In our struggles, in our strife

We know few things to be a given,
for time’s as fickle as it is driven.

But it’s true now, as it was true then,
There’ll be no love for beardless men.

Noite fria em Santa Teresa,
sobe a fumaça branca de um cigarro.

A lua mingua de tristeza,
ouço o som de uma centena de cigarras.

We were different then,
than we are today.

We went through life apart,
but a part of us will stay.