When I write letters to you,
I still need a dictionary.
But you already know all my thoughts
And this is why we are friends.
We can't cross the Ocean,
It's too wide and we have no wings.
Our arguments are strange,
Our pains can’t glue the planet together.
We fly on rock fragments
And forget about our terrestrial life,
And to avoid false rumours
We contrive straightforward answers.
Instead of promising to answer
My question: “What is the point of the life”
You reply: “Saudáde”, and I lie to you:
“My tears are caused by the wind”.
30.03.2015 23:36-23:45 J
(especially with reference to songs or poetry) a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia that is supposedly characteristic of the Portuguese or Brazilian temperament.
Оригинал на русском