Round VII

Lets run away
into the midnight sky
where the moon is high
and the stars shine

Just you and me
Both of us together
bellow the mo0nlight
forever

Round VI

A little Home
in the hill
green landscapes
fill the land

The grass swirls with the wind
a cool breeze in the air
The sun sets in the sight

The soft wind came
wispering your name
painting the sky
with a big white light

As we walk further
your eyes make me wonder
if my boiling heart
can reach your broken heart

Round V

The day is bright
the clouds are white
the moon is high
in the beautifull night

Round IV

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
-Jim Morrison

Round III

Diz a lenda que Bocage, ao chegar a casa um certo dia,ouviu um barulho estranho vindo do seu quintal.

Chegando lá,constatou que um ladrão tentava levar os seus patos de estimação.
Aproximou-sevagarosamente do individuo e, surpeendendo-o ao tentar saltar o muro com os seus amados patos,disse-lhe:

-Oh,bucéfalo anácrono! Nao o interpelo pelo valo intrínseco dos bípedes palmípedes,mas sim pelo acto vil e sorrateiro de profanares o recôndito da minha habitação, levando os meus ovíparos à sorrelfa e à socapa.
Se fazes isso por necessidade,transijo...mas se é pa zombares da minha elevada prosopopeia de cidadão digno e honrado, dar-te-ei com a minha bengala fosforica bem no alto da tua sinagoga, e o farei com tal ímpeto que te reduzirei a quinquagésima potência que o vulgo denomina nada.

E o ladrão,confuso, diz:

-Doutor,afinal eu levo ou deixo os patos?


"Falar como os humildes e pensar como os sábios"

"My poor head is aching my sad heart is breaking"

Round II

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."

— Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)