I remember your words, the ones forgotten
In a world of ordinary poets —
You were different.
My eyes look for you in places
Where you’ve never been before.
Standing alone with yourself,
Looking out the window with a cigarette and an air of
The wind blows. Leaves fly away into the distance
We are too far to hold hands,
I am too small to ever matter.
Having your words in my heart
Has become enough
I was searching for a meaning,
Courage and a gun
When I found you
In the middle of a disaster in bloom,
And every inexplicable detail suddenly made sense
Rain of petals and unfinished poems:
You were light in the late hours of my nights,
But eyes that reflect my face
Will never reflect the twilight ahead of us
Yes, I’ve been writing a lot today.
Sunshine through the sky’s grayness,
Like daggers of light across the clouds.
Graffiti on the walls, a slipping
Wrapped around my neck, like tight hands
I cannot reject — a rope made of ifs and maybes
Alone in the big metropolis,
Facing the last blank canvas —
A white wall and too many people
I could never love
Come and go, forever, in an endless cycle
I don’t want to go to Heaven —
My heart is pleased with
The reality of not living forever.
Since the beginning,
I was meant to become
Less than a memory
Stone gods once adored,
Now left to exist
As unknown deities.
I’d rather never be remembered,
I’d rather just cease to be —
I came from oblivion,
I was not born to be afraid of the end
I loved you, but hated your poetry.
Two years ago, I’d say “he’s so avant garde!
Let him speak from his heart,
You just can’t get it” — now I see
I never really liked it, but could never confess
Enough of writing about my own misery;
I need a new muse:
A Greek goddess or another blue eyed Brit,
My poetry wants someone to adore
Let’s see if I last two weeks
Without writing about empty bedrooms and
High on caffeine and nostalgia
I never could hear your heartbeat,
But loneliness only needed your arms.
The sound of your heart never mattered.
A strand of your hair around my finger,
Your laugh dancing in the messy bedroom.
I told you I would write her name on your skin
And I did.
Pressed against your quiet chest, I wished
You were the one I missed the most
Diluted shades of unknown colors
And new canvas.
Alone with myself, I miss
Your perfume and the love I once had.
You were beautiful and ordinary, wrapped around me
Like a thousand dandelions
The tedious delight of holding your hand
In the middle of a winter afternoon
Without a thing to do, but watch the same old
Boring stuff we used to like —
I wish I had the pleasure of doing all of that
Our love was endless while it lasted
Vinícius de Moraes
I’m always reposting and retranslating this… I need to do the whole thing. I know this line isn’t enough, but it’s the most meaningful.