Love

 is bread for silverware

 is a dragged horn

 is clinically:

 The birds and the bees and some   arrhythmias

 is angina pectoris radiating to the eyes

 is healing the stem of a flower with a plaster of Paris 

 is breaking the lamps

 and cover the windows with newspapers 

 to let yourself be stabbed

 is to see all in shadow and white

 is good morning

 is good afternoon

 is Bonjela

 is turning gallows into swings

 is the placebo effect of poetry

 is using a pacemaker as a pocket watch

 is a dignified erection

 is a bullet

 is the God particle

 is the beginning and the end

 is the pinnacle of progress

 is the heart’s phantom pain

 is the smell of flowers

 is caring for dust

 is a fundamentally human hunger

 is having no idea of what any of this means

 Knowing it’s love

The Artist (Revisited)

On my street 

Lives a beggar who’s blind

Deaf-mute and has a lame leg

(For practical reasons I shall refer to this man as 

The deaf-mute who’s a beggar)

He suffers from these chronic conditions in the most acute manner

And in his most acute moments 

The deaf-mute who’s a beggar 

Mumbles in a confessional tone

Resembling background noise

Walks as if he had a propeller for a leg

And carries a registered blind card

Laminated

The deaf-mute who’s a beggar does all this

Because begging requires talent 

He usually sleeps directly under the moon 

And in one of these nights 

Under one of these moons 

I saw him making the bench:

Folded corners 

Decorative pillows  

And a blanket 

It made me wonder if

When the deaf-mute who’s a beggar

Goes to sleep 

Leaves the limp at the door

Hangs the mutism

And sets the blindness 

On his bench side table  

Made me wonder if he listens 

And even interprets 

If he speaks 

And even expresses opinion

Then if the deaf-mute who’s a beggar

Is not deaf 

mute 

blind

Or has a lame leg 

He’s rather the great pretender 

And deserves to be paid for it 

Poorly paid craft 

The one of being artist

Diogo Baião