not flowed from the street or from the north via the south
his music
wild for the first time in the village that day.
He appeared to 'suddenly in the path,
all came out to listen to
' suddenly went away, and in vain
hoped to see him again.
Its strange music infused in every heart a desire for freedom.
was not a melody, and
not even a melody.
In a place far away,
in a very remote place,
forced to live, they
heard a response to this sound.
response to that desire that everyone has in her womb,
the lost sense of belonging to research
forgotten. The happy bride saw
d 'etre malmaritata,
' s passionate and happy lover
tired of love again,
the girl and the boy were happy
's have only dreamed of,
the lonely hearts that were sad
felt less alone somewhere.
In every soul the flower bloomed
touch that leaves powder landless
the first hour of 'soul mate, that part which we
complete
' s shadow, which is to bless the unspoken depth
lapped the light concern
best of the rest. As
was left.
I felt like half-being.
Then, softly,
became confused with the silence and remembrance.
sleep again left their rice, their ecstatic hope
died, and soon forgot
that had passed.
However, when the sadness of life,
because life is not desired,
returns in 'hours of dreams,
with the sense of coolness,
suddenly everyone remembers - as the new moon shining
where the dream- Life turns to ashes -
the melody of the mad violinist.
(F. Pessoa)
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