This is the first page of poems that have yet to be written, but I will
not think about it. It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo I can see
the tarmac road miles ahead of me stretching into infinity and I know
will not get there alive I must stop before falling off a cliff of oblivion.
Writing is like arithmetic instead of digits it is about putting words
together hoping they add up, harmonize. And two and two is not
four. I’m a composer of silent instruments and I try to tell you what
I hear, but how can I do that without a blaring trumpets to catch your
attention? I can only grasp what is near to me, I know what Is near
to me is universal. Life is not complicated, it is about being loved.
