We do not share time, words or mountains

And I do not come from the East

(Whether you stand in Europe or not)

yet time still passes through our words

and the words still come to our lips.

I must give you a little bit of love

For it seems I was born for nothing else.

From you I receive the glory of crudeness

The exactness of America

And all the more

I cannot really describe in these words for they are not mine.

From you also rises the laughter

(yes, rises, like the morning sun)

And once I almost saw the tears

From you come

impossible riffs that find the tune amidst the deafness of

Hear.

There are other riffs that divide us

and hands that unite us

in a language we never speak

though it is mine.

and you know its sounds and inflections.

and because of it you came to me.

(You must have a fever

One might think

For your hands burn.

And I must be frozen

For somehow I melt)

I wish my English were better

And the words flew from my fingers

as the birds when you watch them from atop

the mountains.

Next time you climb them

And see the flight of the birds

Save the retina of your eyes so I can see the spectacle

Photograph them and send them to me

Your eyes I mean

Otherwise, it will be just birds

And by then you will have flown.

For a second we will share the mountains

the time you take to watch the birds

and the words the birds write in the skies of dreams.

Paula Gândara