There's nothing more extensive than being.
All sets, chances, creations,
Occupies all possibilities.

Being is not a privilege,
Existence is not unique,
It's just a mere fact
That things came to happen:
Since then, nothing else could be possible.

Hu-ray for existence,
But only through nothingness,
And subsequently denying it
Creation happens.
We owe all to the generosity of no thing.

I can always do better next time.
That's the curse of time:
The end is a never happening event.

There's no such thing
As a perpetual motion.

History isn't made,
Isn't told, isn't its registers.
History is screamed,
Shout without words,
As long the feeling is right.

For every action
There's an unequal voice
Roaring positively haltered,
Farming, dividing, conquering,
Cave by cave,
House by house,
City by city,
Until no desire is spared.

All that's left to do
Is screaming badly,
Be hard and be heard,
Out of tune
For other tunes to be discovered.

Shout, shout,
That's the only way
Reality emerge,
Only by scream, by sound,
That's how to honor
All the silence hidden
In fervent claims.

Shout who you are,
Shout the smell around,
Shout as the flowers could answer,
Shout louder than howls,
Shout hunger and richness,
Shout danger, shout peace.

Only unheard screams
Can be shut by the grave.

Tight clothes for tight time,
Elastic thinking for elastic reality,
And all leftovers are despised:
Food, light, heat, air, time, words;
Nothing can be vainly wasted.

Correct use of words,
Food enough to frighten hunger,
Heat to keep the mood right:
All is precise,
Even our behavior,
Even our calendars,
Even our gluttony,
Even our *******.

In a fluid era,
Precision is our cicuta.
Yet, it is hard to say
Which is medicine, which is poison.
So far, the best we've being doing
Is keep taking both.

Death is certain,
There is no reason for panic.
The hard part, in my opinion,
Is to inhabit the tight coffin.

It was not an option
To be what I became,
It is a matter of time, context,
Life, family, town, skin,
Gender, straightness, history.

To assume I had an option
Is the same as saying
A fish chooses water,
A rock refuses breathing,
A river runs from the mountain.

The laws are there,
The options are vain,
Free will is bought, but never sold.
There is just enough liberty
So we can't effusively discard it.

There is always an upper level of rules,
From society to biology to physics to emptiness.
No system can be self sufficient.

My Portuguese sadness,
My Italian gesticulation,
My German treatment,
My Northern simplicity,
My Brazilian compassion
Can only explain half of me.

I don't know Yoruba
And I don't know Tupi,
I am a Brazilian suspended
In European webs,
But all of it have a bit of me.
I cannot decide between
Abequar and Icarus,
For I am a constant mixture of opposites.

I can only define myself
Within gradients and midterms,
Undefinable, then.
To have an identity
Is to have none.

Into the limits I throw myself
Not to the encounter of softness
Or greener fields, or even fairness.
I seek only to dismantle
The coldness in my fingers,
The numb in my feet,
The grayness in my eyes.

Wherever I fall,
It's a different place from today:
Other landscapes,
Other language,
Other buildings,
Other people.

I cross the world
To unfit the rules I don't fit.
There's a rebellion in my laughs,
And I only sing out of tune.

I go, for coming back
Is always an illusion.