This is a non-editing/filtering version of a live rehearsal session between me and João Grillo (guitarist). One day later, we performed at Lovecraft Beer Lounge Aveiro :)

徘徊著的 在路上的pái huái zhe de zài lù shàng deThose who are wandering, those who are on the road你要走嗎 via vianǐ yào zǒu ma via viaYou want to go? (Are you going?) Via, via 易碎的 驕傲著yì suì de jiāo’àozheFragile ones, Proud ones那也曾是我的模樣nà yě céng shì wǒ de múyàngThat was also my appearance, once 沸騰著的 不安著的fèiténgzhe de bù’ānzhe deFurious ones, uneasy ones你要去哪 via vianǐ yào qù nǎ via viaWhere are you going? Via, via 謎一樣的 沉默著的mí yīyàng de chénmòzhe deMysterious ones, silent ones故事 你真的 在聽嗎gùshì nǐ zhēn de...

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…In life after life, in age after age, forever.My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,In life after life, in age after age, forever.Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,Its ancient tale of being apart or together.As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness...

  You too wanted better things, but love          forces all of us down.  Sorrow bends us more          forcefully, but the arc doesn't return to its          point of origin without a reason.           Upwards or downwards!  In holy Night,          where mute Nature plans the coming days,          doesn't there reign in the most twisted Orcus          something straight and direct?           This I have learned.  Never to my knowledge          did you, all-preserving gods, like mortal       ...

BGM by Aleksey Chistilin - The Story of One Life

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me- “We play from the time we wake till the day ends. We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.” I ask, “But how am I to get up to you ?” They answer, “Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.” “My mother is waiting for me at home, “I say, “How can I leave her and come?” Then they smile and float away. But I know a nicer game than that, mother. I shall be the...

often it is the onlythingbetween you andimpossibility.no drink,no woman's love,no wealthcanmatch it.nothing can saveyouexceptwriting.it keeps the wallsfromfailing.the hordes fromclosing in.it blasts thedarkness.writing is theultimatepsychiatrist,the kindliestgod of all thegods.writing stalksdeath.it knows noquit.and writinglaughsat itself,at pain.it is the lastexpectation,the lastexplanation.that'swhat itis.from blank gun silencer - 1991 BGM by Nsee - Bloom

No people are uninteresting. Their fate is like the chronicle of planets. Nothing in them is not particular, and planet is dissimilar from planet. And if a man lived in obscurity making his friends in that obscurity obscurity is not uninteresting. To each his world is private, and in that world one excellent minute. And in that world one tragic minute. These are private. In any man who dies there dies with him his first snow and kiss and fight. It goes with him. There are left books and...

I wonder about the trees.Why do we wish to bearForever the noise of theseMore than another noiseSo close to our dwelling place?We suffer them by the dayTill we lose all measure of pace,And fixity in our joys,And acquire a listening air.They are that that talks of goingBut never gets away;And that talks no less for knowing,As it grows wiser and older,That now it means to stay.My feet tug at the floorAnd my head sways to my shoulderSometimes when I watch trees sway,From the window or the door.I...

The Landscape by Don Paterson A Version I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer those lilacs and roses whose breath filled the broad woods, where the sail of a flame lay at the end of each arrow-straight path. I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer that storm whose white nerve sparked the castle towers, or left the mind unrhymed, or flared an instant, just where the road forked. It is the star struck under my heel in the night. It is the word no...

YOU NEVER KNEW MY MIND 1967 I know you feel the way I change But you can't change the way I feel Sometimes I'm a stranger to you one of a kind I chink some way you'll make it Though you don't know how to take it You can't deal with how I'm thinkin' Cause you never knew my mind There were times of lots of laughter And you felt you understood me We were carefree, open, honest Loving easy, true and kind I suppose you never doubted then That we had it all together Then you say the...

By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule-From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,Out of SPACE- out of TIME.Bottomless vales and boundless floods,And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,With forms that no man can discoverFor the tears that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto skies of...

I went down to the river,I set down on the bank.I tried to think but couldn't,So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered!I came up twice and cried!If that water hadn't a-been so coldI might've sunk and died.      But it was      Cold in that water!      It was cold! I took the elevatorSixteen floors above the ground.I thought about my babyAnd thought I would jump down. I stood there and I hollered!I stood there and I cried!If it hadn't a-been so highI might've jumped and...

I think about things that might have been and never were. The treatise on Saxon myths that Bede omitted to write. The inconceivable work that Dante may have glimpsed As soon as he corrected the Comedy's last verse. History without two afternoons: that of the hemlock, that of the Cross. History without Helen's face. Man without the eyes that have granted us the moon. Over three Gettysburg days, the victory of the South. The love we never shared. The vast empire the Vikings declined to...

In space in time I sitThousands of feet aboveThe sea and meditateOn solitude on love Near all is brown and poorHouses are made of earthSun opens every doorThe city is a hearth Far all is blue and strangeThe sky looks down on snowAnd meets the mountain-rangeWhere time is light not shadow Time in the heart held stillSpace as the household godAnd joy instead of willKnows love as solitude Knows solitude as loveKnows time as light not shadowThousands of feet aboveThe sea where I am now BGM:...

A Nation of trees, drab green and desolate grey In the field uniform of modern wars, Darkens her hills, those endless, outstretched paws Of Sphinx demolished or stone lion worn away. They call her a young country, but they lie: She is the last of lands, the emptiest, A woman beyond her change of life, a breast Still tender but within the womb is dry. Without songs, architecture, history: The emotions and superstitions of younger lands, Her rivers of water drown among inland sands, The river...

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go...

The World Cup, a global stage, Where nations come to play, A spectacle of skill and strength, A test of will and might. From distant lands they come, These titans of the game, To battle on the pitch, In search of victory and fame. For one bright month, the world will watch, As players clash and scores are fought, A drama of sweat and tears and blood, A contest of both skill and luck. And when the final whistle blows, And the champion is crowned, We'll look back on the...

Football, the beautiful game, A source of passion and of shame, A battle on the pitch of life, Where heroes rise and villains thrive. With leather ball and studded boots, We chase and kick and score and hoot, A symphony of cheers and groans, As players clash and tackles flown. For ninety minutes and beyond, We fight for every inch of ground, A contest of both mind and might, Where victory is our sole delight. So let us play with all our heart, And never from the game depart, For...

II My gaze is clear like a sunflower. It is my custom to walk the roads Looking right and left And sometimes looking behind me, And what I see at each moment Is what I never saw before, And I’m very good at noticing things. I’m capable of feeling the same wonder A newborn child would feel If he noticed that he’d really and truly been born. I feel at each moment that I’ve just been born Into a completely new world... I believe in the world as in a daisy, Because I see it. But I...

Countless lives inhabit us. I don’t know, when I think or feel, Who it is that thinks or feels. I am merely the place Where things are thought or felt. I have more than just one soul. There are more I’s than I myself. I exist, nevertheless, Indifferent to them all. I silence them: I speak. The crossing urges of what I feel or do not feel Struggle in who I am, but I Ignore them. They dictate nothing To the I I know: I write. © Translation: 1998, Richard Zenith From: Fernando Pessoa &...

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of...

My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird— equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand. Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since...