Do vasto campo das suas mentiras, Arranquei pétalas de bem-me-quer. Vivemos juntos naquele vidro aguádo, Feito de imagens sem linhas nem faces, Onde pétalas de pedra gritavam Se pétalas de rosa falassem.
How is it, when we cannot escape?
When life assumes so incredibly huge proportions that one simply cannot stop it?
That is us, when masks remain for so long over our faces that we forget what is under it.
And here comes my solution: one should appear naked on a blind spot and ask oneself: how do I stack up now?
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