Lídia Pastor

An octave higher

Afternoon falls, after you stop

doing your chores, finished

The cold tears outside, inside,

The dense smoke rings here and there

here and now, hold bubbles air,

loose thoughts, orange tree veils,

the dreams chained in this 

ironic prediction to think of you.

They are bubbles of faith in a land

with it still in your land of honey

And my heart improvise this 

prediction dream unattainable, they say,

They want, they believe, and none of that!

Evening falls and I don't believe them,

I don't believe you, I don't believe you

because bubbles of faith hold on

As the afternoon falls and my heart flies

Far from you, unforeseen?

I know who you are to me, she whispers

And we all sang in her voice,

And then every moment is worse,

I know who you are to me!

This irony, you, without me being able

to control it anymore

the flow, I don't even want to

I just want to

keep believing, wanting and that

Freedom is still, still, still mine.

The dream doesn't die. O Caetano,

And Marcia arrived,

In the silence of your speech

in the honey lands of Eugenia,

From your poem, my longing is you,

from our speech. and JP shoots

In the skin that is in you, there I am,

I'm from there, from that mountain

and JP stops me, to keep talking 

about the bubbles of smoke balls

that take you the cold that we live 

here without you!

Soon it will be night, where everybody's 

dusk and I wake you up

On the other side

and from the distance from me to thee,

You don't know anything.