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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.
I was raised by who I always called my grandfather. Even if he was not my relative, he was the one who caught out of some full roaring bike, that was hanged on a tree, with my whole life upside down. That’s where I have started.
As early as 1909, Ezra Pound knew the poetry of Walt Whitman and the Whitman myth; and he felt obliged to claim kinship with the older poet. At the outset of his career, he wrote of Whitman, “I honour him for he prophesied me while I can only recognize him as a forebear of whom I ought to be proud.”