Twenty-fifth of April of a year to be invented

 Thou the beginning and the end. Thou everlasting in me. You. Yes, you and only you. 

They told me to leave you, to leave you, to forget you, to hide you from my chest, from my heart, from my eyes, from the longing that is born, somewhere between the ventricles of the lungs, between the pleura, well after the glottis, to forget you, in the alveoli, to erase you, as if such an exercise were possible, in the neuroleptic synapses, as if the moon could forget the sun, as if the human could forget God, they don't know that they asked me for the impossible, they don't know, or maybe they know that they asked me because it was impossible for me. How do we do such an exercise, of forgetting, of concealment, of the blackout between what we remember to be happy, our ignition, and the continuation of the days that we don't? You can't do it! I shout at them that I do not know how to do this. Ah, if only you had not come to see me, if only you had remained in me, without my eyes having beheld you, if life had an iota of shame and justice, everything would be different! No!

I don't know how to erase you, no, I don't know how to do that, maybe it's even better to die, to cease to exist, a task that seems to me much more feasible than that of forgetting you, if I came into the world to see you, to look at you and kiss you, to fall asleep in the memory of your unequal eyes, in your good humor and in your acute intelligence,  in your musical creation! Are the gods crazy to ask me for such a task? To leave you in pause, in vines of garlic, in silence, in shadow, in dreamlike intermittence, in a hidden cadence? But forgetting you is not!

And I look at the calendar, the clock, the moonlight, here in the back of my head, I don't know how to forget you, my god, what do I gain by forgetting my sense of life, my compass, my balsamarium, my astrolabe, my heart? What can a woman like me, if the sun goes out, continue to breathe, how oxygen reaches the lungs, the heart, and I tell myself stories where I stroke your forehead, where I reproduce you from memory, your warm breath, your back, your surroundings, your hair, your chest, the glossary of life that I keep inside, not to tell you how much you miss me in the days, as if it were possible to ask a human being to forget to breathe, I need the pleura intact,  From the notion, even if abstract, from your lip contour, from your present profile, your waters and your symphony, my twenty-fifth of April and my inner harmony. Only a madman can ask for so much and and think it's not enough!

And I take you with me red-hot, I take you into the house, into the garden, into the supermarket, I take you in my eyes, in my mouth, in flames, fire, solarium, I take you to a mountain, in a stroke of the wing, I take you always, always, do not ask me to hide what is so urgent to me, to get rid of the inner light, of what motivates the thirsty soul to continue here! I take you and I take you and even if you don't see me, I have you with me inside, it's inside that you stay, more than tattoo, bloodstream, goosebumps, bed of love, horniness, cold, longing and more than longing, the truth that you are me. And I don't get rid of you, I don't pretend that I can, no, I don't want to leave you, if it's too late, too late I'll condemn myself, for not having taken up the sword and fought like a warrior for your love that prevails and dusk and dawn, every day, like the moon in the night sky, like the sun in the clear day, I do not forget you, I confess, I do not know how to forget you! I push myself into that truth and tell them I'm not made of steel, Neither of wood nor of metal, I am a woman after all, flesh and blood and life, I am the wounded warrior who gathers the strength to write to you and tell you that, no matter how much they ask me to forget you, I don't know how to do it. I love you today and all the days of my life, because that's what you did to me, that's how you made me, I'm the one who honors every cell of you, I'm the one who dreams of your embrace, the one who doesn't neglect your countenance, I am and always will be your lover. 

And you are my April, in flowery shotgun barrels, you are strength and music, freedom of expression, Zeca Afonso's chorus, you are Sérgio Godinho and Fernando Tordo, you are Paulo de Carvalho in the afterlife, you are Salgueiro Maia and Otelo, Spínola, and Marcelo, you are Natália Correia and Maria de Lurdes Goldfinch, you are the thousandth abcessory, you are internal and eternal in the composition of the month of April! You are and always will be yesterday, today and tomorrow. In you, all the destinies of the ascetic that you have always been will blossom, the restless and feverish poet, sympathetic and emperor, you are the origin of the planet, in this age of Aquarius!

No, in order to forget you, they will have to steal you from within me, and nothing has yet been born that can do so. You are tomorrow, but you are still today, you are yesterday, but you will continue to be beyond the stars, far beyond everything, time, that you are wind and storm, shroud and sea and fraternity, you are utopia and hope, which makes you the most preserved and beautiful memory in all the annals of history. You are April.