Tell me, love, that I'm loved,
Tell me about the glory of your ideal dream,
Snuggle me, while you smile, next to your chest,
Take me from the swamps of life.
Drunk in a strange labour,
I bring in my hands my broken heart,
Show me the light, teach me the rules,
that will save me and redeem me!
In this dark cistern where I drown,
without illusions, without beliefs, without tenderness,
agony without faith of the dying,
I scream your name in a strange thirst,
as it was all the freshness, love,
of the crystal waters of the mountain!
- Florbela Espanca -
I love everything that it was
Everything that is not anymore
The pain that I no longer feel
The old and erroneous faith
The pain that the yesterday left
The joy that was left
Just because it was, and flew
And today is already another day.
- Fernando Pessoa -
Love is a fire that burns unseen;
it's a wound that aches without feeling it;
It's a discontent contentment;
It's pain that rages without hurting;
It's a not wanting more than wanting;
It's a lonely walk in the midst of people;
It's never feeling satisfied of happiness;
It's what you gain by losing;
It's to be enslaved for your own free will;
It's to serve who wins, the winner;
It's being loyal to our killer;
But how can brings friendship
to the human hearts,
if so self-contradictory is Love?
- Luis Vaz de Camões -
The Knives
Four letters are killing us, four knives;
that in my body engraves your name.
Four knives, my love, with which you kill me
without me killing this hunger and thirst.
This is a love of war.
Loving you I attack, Loving me you counter-attack.
This is a love of blood that doesn't stanch.
Four letters are killing us, four knives.
I am armed of love. And unarmed,
I die assaulting, I die if you assault me.
And in each assault I die
Four letters with which ones you kill me.
And the knives wound me more in your absence.
Four letters are killing us, four knives.
- Manuel Alegre -
What is to love
To love is watching to die every hour,
a dream that love crucified
and wearing mourning clothes every dawn.
It's a febrile desire that agonized...
Is to wash all the pain, all the bitterness,
In the pity fountain of a look
And realize, after a dark night,
That the pain is immense and the fountain is drying up...
It's to see in the green eyes that we kiss
falling the ashes of the dead life..
And when the tedium knocks on our door,
Raising the hands of the one we adore
It's kissing them asking for forgiveness
of having the soul dead and dead the heart...
- António Patrício -
