Creative break

(In this page, I just try to write in other languages. Translating with google.  I´m sorry!)


It needs, urgently, a boat
without discoverers

fast and wide to collect the shame of the seas
to welcome the tears

these thousand drops in the high seas

a boat that embraces
hope and misfortune

Not the Caronte's boat
without lighthouse and no port
where is shipwrecked the humankind

a boat without the solitude of navigator
without the Odyssey and the southern cruise
to cross the worlds, not the arms
to reinvent the geography
to expand the look and the feeling

we need a boat, a barcarola
as a lullaby
to free us from the nightmare
and human storm

a simple paper boat
that could, in deep crossing,

float ...


Immense ash cloud
Extending across the sky
in the fog

In the street, uncovered, hear the French song in a blues way

Weird it all and every thing fair
Obviously it should be
Imperious and indifferent

many functionalities
and the essential lack in these many
of a story that tells them
and include them as scenography
without leaving aside the smallest of things

but still here
the inverse of the willingness
By all corners scrutinized that night
competing with the endless drops without salt
look tight
the corner fading away
a bit out of that place

It wasn't the version he preferred
But it was the song
That isn't how one should live
But that's life ...


A policy of a life

the inadequacy
and the power that care us
so extreme is the center and so close that horizon
unsolved ... (is the formula that define our lips)


Our hands don't carry bombs
To look and imagine being zeppelins
As fishes floating in the blue sea
Swimming aimlessly and without cause

Our home comforts us
And its walls are not trembling
Neither break up over our naked bodies
In order to see the outside

Our day is divided into good parts of
How do we divide the bread that do not lack for us
Neither we mix the evening with the sun
Neither the dream with thoughts

Our life is light and good
But not as light as the angels
And their numerous feathers
Blowing the boy's face

(to a syrian boy that carries bombs to his father, that I saw in a photograph)

a policy of a life

What is life for, if not for herself

sculptor silence

I wanted to touch you
With the indecipherable of my senses
That do not transpose from the body for an imaginary hereafter

As a sculptor silence
With the submission of hands dipping into the mud
Like a cook hands
So rude preparing the sublime
Without knowing how to touch his own face

I wanted to leave my hands soft
Slow as olive
To feed you a healthy warmth
Like child who only knows the nearer
Fully naked for receiving the spring
With the intense of the odors
The brightness on your skin
And bathe in whole
Then, fall asleep ...


Bye, little man

little man
changes in life
the poetry of strange paths cut open
with virtue
with the metallic taste in your hands
with the laughter and the pain

looks at the Hill
the stone
the sky
the love must hover like the clouds
above the world
as the ceiling of the churches
as a melody that rises...

little man
life has changed
the step
the passing
the farewell
thou fire
thou moon
changes, only
becomes fearlessly its way
go alone ...

João Omar


перемены в жизни
Поэзия путь иностранного
с достоинством
с металлический привкус рук
с смех и боль
смотреть на горы
любовь должна парить, как облака
а над миром
а также на потолке церкви
а также мелодия поднимается
жизнь изменилась
до свидания
ты огонь
Ты луна
бесстрашный в своем роде
собирается только ...

João Omar