Tô com Saudades
Se eles não tiverem grandeza pra te fazer feliz, saiba: eu tô aqui, inteiro, ardendo em silêncio, só esperando uma brecha no seu mundo pra te amar do jeito que você merece.
Os trabalhadores tem o poder mais imenso nas palmas de suas próprias mãos, e se eles uma vez se tornassem completamente conscientes disso e o usassem, Nada poderia resistir a eles; eles só precisarem parar de trabalhar, considerassem o produto do trabalho como seu e o apreciarem. Este é o sentido das perturbações laborais que se mostram aqui e ali.
O Estado se baseia e descansasse na escravidão do trabalho. Se o trabalho se torna livre, o Estado estará perdido.
"The loneliest solitude is not living without someone; it is waking to find you have become a stranger to yourself."
enitnatsnoC oãoJ
Some people do not kill us when they leave; they merely abandon us to time. As we wait for a return that will never come, we slowly rust in silence, like an old gate still believing it can hear the footsteps of someone who has already chosen another road.
enitnatsnoC oãoJ
Tô relendo minha lida, minha alma, meus amores
Tô revendo minha vida, minha luta, meus valores
Refazendo minhas forças, minhas fontes, meus favores
Tô regando minhas folhas, minhas faces, minhas flores
Tô limpando minha casa, minha cama, meu quartinho
Tô soprando minha brasa, minha brisa, meu anjinho
Tô bebendo minhas culpas, meu veneno, meu vinho
Escrevendo minhas cartas, meu começo, meu caminho
Estou podando meu jardim
Estou cuidando bem de mim
"Trate as crianças como seres pensantes nas suas diferentes fases, e não como bobinhas por toda esta etapa da vida."
Some souls do not need rescuing. They only need someone willing to listen to the blues they carry in silence.
Those who see only the rust will never understand the courage it takes for old steel to remain standing
Perhaps we are not lost.
Perhaps we have spent so long searching for a door that we forgot to ask whether there was ever a way out.
The saddest souls do not fear death—they simply become accustomed to cancelling tomorrow before it arrives."
"Rust is merely time teaching the heart that even hope can decay in silence.
Você quer?
Você quer um homem romântico, eu tô aqui,
Você sonha em ter um homem santo e puro, deixa eu me apresentar,
Você implora por um homem safado e cheio de malícia, então vêm se deliciar,
Cuidado com o que você deseja, eu posso ser todos eles em um corpo só e com vários pecados pra serem explorados.
The clocks have long forgotten how to sing.
They only grind their rust into my bones,
while every dawn arrives like an unpaid debt
and every dusk folds another year into my skin.
Loneliness is not a room.
It is a patient blacksmith,
forging silence into chains,
teaching the heart to grow old before the body.
I wake only to postpone tomorrow.
Every promise is crossed out before it breathes;
I have become a careful collector
of unfinished mornings.
My soul hangs beneath the weather
like an abandoned lantern,
its light surrendering, not all at once,
but flake by flake,
the way iron quietly accepts rust.
The seasons no longer knock at my window.
They pass as strangers
who once knew my name
and chose the mercy of forgetting.
If hope still exists,
it has learnt to whisper from another century.
I cannot hear it above the slow corrosion
of hours feeding upon my chest.
And so I remain—
not living, not dying,
only watching time patiently oxidise
the last bright corners of a lonely soul,
while every evening
I gently cancel tomorrow
as though the future were a letter
that was never meant to find me.The clocks have long forgotten how to sing.
They only grind their rust into my bones,
while every dawn arrives like an unpaid debt
and every dusk folds another year into my skin.
Loneliness is not a room.
It is a patient blacksmith,
forging silence into chains,
teaching the heart to grow old before the body.
I wake only to postpone tomorrow.
Every promise is crossed out before it breathes;
I have become a careful collector
of unfinished mornings.
My soul hangs beneath the weather
like an abandoned lantern,
its light surrendering, not all at once,
but flake by flake,
the way iron quietly accepts rust.
The seasons no longer knock at my window.
They pass as strangers
who once knew my name
and chose the mercy of forgetting.
If hope still exists,
it has learnt to whisper from another century.
I cannot hear it above the slow corrosion
of hours feeding upon my chest.
And so I remain—
not living, not dying,
only watching time patiently oxidise
the last bright corners of a lonely soul,
while every evening
I gently cancel tomorrow
as though the future were a letter
that was never meant to find me.
I love you, Imiss you, you are my world I think of you, you make me happy, I want to be with you, you are my lome, I need you.
Gravei seu nome na alma de um jeito tão profundo que até meu silêncio e cada suspiro pertencem totalmente a você.
_Enzo Ruchell_
