Tardes outonais

Desfilam dúvidas
Nas ruas. O sol
Não esquenta braços vazios.

Longas tardes,
Por onde sombras
Abrem caminho
E até certezas
Fazem cair.

Para desejosas sombras
Virem da fantasia
E fazerem real
A prisão de um homem.

Qual prazer pode curar
O vazio das tardes outonais?

As belas sombras
Só ofertam dúvidas
E contando outonos
Não encontro resposta.

Só me restaram
Sombras e fantasias,
Grades em tardes vazias.

By Morrison's grave

You were the Spy in House of Love,

The King Snake that made me wake.

But you lie and crawl no more.

I search your soul far in some shore.

Your poetry glow and we still Howl.

Forever embraced by your sweet heroin.

Finally resting, forever the end.

All the Indians in your tomb scream high:

You were the shaman and we are your tribe.

Jim Morrison sings no more.

Mojo Rising

Can't be our guide!

We are lost in the night

And no day comes to destroy it.

Still taking poison and good times.

But Rock 'n' Roll is dead. Yeah!

We fuck and drink and buzz.

We love and hate and feel.

We search for light and all's night.

I woke this morning and I got myself

Here – to your grave.

I have this longing. I crave

To crawl a little while longer.

I try to wake your soul.

But you are dead my friend.

So rest and sleep well.

You had enough you had it all.

So have with me one last beer.

Here is to you, Jim Morrison!