My Homeland Is The Portuguese

Sadly I Write In My Quiet Room, Alone As I Have Always Been, Alone As I Will Always Be. And I Wonder If My Apparently Negligible Voice Might Not Embody The Essence Of Thousands Of Voices, The Longing For Self Expression Of Thousands Of Lives, The Patience Of Millions Of Souls Resigned Like My Own To Their Daily Lot, Their Useless Dreams, And Their Hopeless Hopes.

We’ve Been Devastated By The Severest And Deadliest Drought In History – That Of Our Profound Awareness Of The Futility Of All Effort And The Vanity Of All Plans.

The End Is Low, Like All Quantitative Ends, Personal Or Not, And It Can Be Attained And Verified.

Without Madness What Is Man But A Wholesome Beast, Postponed Corpse That Begets?

But Do We Really Live? To Live Without Knowing What Life Is - Is That Living?