Bab'Aziz

There are as many paths to God as there are souls on Earth.

*

- But where is this gathering?
- I don't know, my little angel.
- But do the others know?
- No, they don't know either.
- How can you go to a gathering without knowing where it is?
- It suffices to walk, just walk. Those who are invited will find the way.

*

My son, don't be satisfied with a drop of water.
You have to throw yourself into His stream.

*

- If the baby in the darkness of its mother's womb were told: "Outside, there's a world of life, with high mountains, great seas, undulating planes, beautiful gardens in blossom, a sky full of stars and a blazing sun... And you, facing all these marvels, stay enclosed in this darkness...", the unborn child, knowing nothing about these marvels, would not believe any of these. Like us, when we're facing death. That's why we're afraid.
- But there can't be light in death because it is the end of everything.
- How can death be end of something that doesn't have a beginning? Hassan, my son, don't be sad at my wedding night.
- Your wedding night?
- Yes. My marriage with eternity.

*

The people of this world are like the three butterflies in front of a candle's flame.
The first one went closer and said "I know about love".
The second one touched the flame, lightly, with his wings and said: "I know how love's fire can burn".
The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame and was consumed. He alone knows what true love is.

*

He who has faith will never get lost, my little angel.
He who is at peace won't lost his way.

"Sin is its own punishment."

my tummy hurts

essa tinta preta quem incrustou em mim foi tu.
(mas fui eu que te pedi pra que o fizesse)

a superfície, límpida como um espelho, não falava do que se punha debaixo de toda aquela água.

saio de cena

pro amor entrar.

sobre a coceira n'alma

"What is the reason for this gnawing dissatisfaction? The world's great spiritual traditions all give the same answer: we are not entirely at home in this world of change and death. The body may belong, but the spirit is in exile here, a wanderer, a stranger in a strange land. And we long for home"

uma parada

leio as promessas do povo de parar a cidade.
penso no tempo parado que o feriadão me tinha dado de presente.
horas e horas sem contar horas. minutos infindos de despreocupação com o tempo.
mas a volta pra casa traz o tiquetaquear forte aos meus ouvidos de novo.
meus segundos não contados passaram arrastados pra tantos outros corações desalentados.
e esses relógios compassados e ao mesmo tempo tão discrepantes não param.
a cidade vai parar, as vidas estacionarão em seus momentos difíceis, as pausas de café serão feitas, as engrenagens enferrujarão. mas o tempo permanecerá inflexível aos clamores de trégua. e talvez só por isso as engrenagens possam ser vistoriadas, os cigarros fumados, os passageiros restantes acalentados em suas dores e os protestos ouvidos.