2. Amor*
*Demo version
Love (Amor) gushes from Sopro’s pause. Convulsion, trepidation in the interval. Here’s this ancient memory: the fear of dying. Found in the early beginnings of life, what an unpromising destiny it ensures. The fear of dying as a vengeance. Revenge over the strong, the lush, the capable, the elevated. The fear of dying at the basis of the tendency to stand the straightest humanly possible, to dominate the most of that which is known, and at the core of this necessity to have assurance over one’s actions. This fear that obliterates, refuses all that is fragile, defective, delicate, sensible, all that represents the disquiet different, all that is unknown, all that is uncertain or lives in the quiet present. All these statues around me, all these busts – stony refusals of the ephemeral. Yet the dust over the commode, my finger drawing a line on it, this groove, this passage that my finger slowly opens – all this lives, all this needs to be told. My finger will tell it. I’ll catch my breath. I’ll burn the fear. I’ll love and I’ll find that which is necessary. I’ll find it, I’ll love it. That which is real. I’ll love that which is transitory. Begin.
Nós tememos tanto a morte
e tudo o que se parece com ela
que deixamos mesmo que tudo nos leve para a poça.
Nós tememos tanto a morte
que parece que andamos no arrasto à espera
que o arrasto não nos pegue.
A fazer tudo ao desbarato antes que o arrasto
nos pegue.
Um medo tão insalubre tão insalubre
que deixa por dentro insalubre
e assim anda: insalubre
a beber água do mar as golfadas.
Sem ver que a Terra já é uma perfeição, sem ter que se achar perfeita nisso, só bela.
Terra votada ali ao lamento
que um dia a morte nos pega.
Lamento à morte, lamento à terra.
Por aí andamos sem olhar a Terra e ver que ela
Terra nos olha, não com olhos, mas com o seu Amor.
