Lisbon, too, was devastated once by an earthquake
And it was an unexpected chance
For urban planning, its modernization
Marques de Pombal proudly held his head up
But heaps of rubble, the ruins from the fire
Quietly remain
Like a grandfather's ghost
With his silk necktie properly worn
(In 1988 when I was here for the first time
I saw Chiado recently burned and
Still smelling of the purifying ashes)
Ghosts remain
Even when you can't see them
Even if two things cannot occupy the same space
But that becomes possible if time lags behind
From time itself
(Time after time, larmoyante, that Miles played
at Waikiki Shell, under a full moon)
If not, there would be no explanations
For apparitions of figures
For revolutions of heavenly bodies
Or why I could visit a casa de Fernando Pessoa
Yesterday, quite by chance
Near the British cemetery
When two persons stand at the same angle
In relation to the same set of books
They become one person
When two persons sit at the same angle
In relation to a piece of white paper
They enter into a struggle, the agon
Of life and death
The designated arms are pens and threads
I find out that I, too, is forver nobody
Nobody, personne, pour qui sonne
Os dias
Muito nitidos
E sem olhar.
