Afinal há quem escreva ao Coronel *

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I tried to see your face in the face of the others. That unpopulated nation. Deconstructing the face of everyone or adding them one by one. To find you. Macanese, is what the verb rings. The being of this land. That endless commitment. Which brings nothing of concrete.


The day dawned like any other. But rose in an agglutination of gray. A lifeless twilight. Uncoloured. And the static sky. Pale, fled, completely rupestral. Lost amid the Delta and forgotten in an omitted crowd.

The trees swaying with a hope of wind, warding off the minutes from here to there. The mercy seat. The unbearable lightness. Making the first day of the rest of the life of this town. Without you.

The news arrived early. Through the mists. Pounding the pavement, in the sayings of the people. In the voice of the radio and lost in the hum of the boats on a strenuous docking. The fishermen leaving the high seas. The sampan gals wakening the looks. Flowers to the chest. The whole streets deserted.

Crowded but deserted. Hollow.

I tried to see your face in the face of the others. That unpopulated nation. Deconstructing the face of everyone or adding them one by one. To find you. Macanese, is what the verb rings. The being of the land. And nothing more than that. All of us, after all, being it. Even without the essence of an identity. It’s what can be seen, when the dusk already twisted the hour. The city on a large scale. In a small town. Forever. The disoriented far east.

It was. It is no longer. For a few eternal moments. While you left your existence.

And now?

Nothing to be done.

The Avenue-going-straight still flows in the same latitude, it did not move an inch. The fuss of the cars endure. The plate of the office. The same stairs. A window on top. The smoke from a pipe still resonating. The Lyceum. Yours. One day after the other. Days that ran one after the other, ever to having caught each other. Or met.

Until yesterday.

And this is Life opening into the wilderness. Clean. No fringes. Without the whisper of the winds or the protest from the seas. Leaving the seeds behind. It was, has been said. And will be forever. Even among the remains of sadness and in all the smiles that will be kept in your remembrance. In the eyes of the women who contemplated you. The family. The name. On the aftermath.

And the lines. Spoken by your hand. Everlasting.

* to HSF