Carlos Santana's

no images or words

however, gorgeous music

Rubem Alves'

Cartas de amor são escritas não para dar notícias,
não para contar nada, mas para que mãos separadas
se toquem ao tocarem a mesma folha de papel.

Love letters are not written to bring forth any news,
nor to tell anything new, they are written so that far
away hands can touch by touching its paper in turn.

Focus

Think about what you want, not what you don't want. Guard your thoughts carefully, because they create your experiences. Sometimes it seems that our thoughts choose us, but this is never the case. We always choose our thoughts, every moment. Our thoughts always have an effect, and there are no neutral thoughts. One-half second before you hold a thought, you decide to hold it. So, with practice, you can learn to monitor and alter your thoughts. This is the equivalent of putting your hands on the steering wheel of your life. You may believe that your concentration abilities are impaired, yet the infallible mind of God is within your own mind. You can experience remarkable feats of concentration by affirming: "I am now able to focus my mind at will. I hold only loving thoughts, and my angels act as my gatekeepers in establishing a steady stream of thoughts of love."

Card picked from Healing with the Angels.

Chico Buarque's

Sweet Sunday

going on now

when the moon is in the seventh house

and Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace

will guide our planet and love will steer

the stars

Fernando Pessoa's village creek

poucos sabem qual é o rio

da minha aldeia

e para onde vai

e de onde ele vem

e por isso, porque pertence

a menos gente, é

mais livre e maior

o rio da minha aldeia

the creek of my village
is known to few
and where it goes to
and where it comes from, too
therefore, because
fewer ones own it
the creek of my village is
freer and bigger

the windmills of your mind

round

like a circle in a spiral

like a wheel within a wheel

never ending nor beginning

on an ever-spinning wheel

like a snowball down a mountain

or a carnival balloon

like a carousel that's turning

running rings around the moon

like a clock whose hands are sweeping

past the minutes of its face

and the world is like an apple

whirling silently in space

like the circles that you find

in the windmills of your mind

like a tunnel that you follow

to a tunnel of its own

down a hollow to a cavern

where the sun has never shone

like a door that keeps revolving

and a half-forgotten dream

or the ripples from the pebble

someone tosses in a stream

like a clock whose hands are sweeping

past the minutes of its face

and the world is like an apple

whirling silently in space

like the circles that you find

in the windmills of your mind

keys that jingle in your pocket

words that jangle in your head

why did summer go so quickly

was it something that you said

lovers walk along the shore

leaving footprints in the sand

is the sound of distant drumming

just the fingers of your hand

pictures hanging in a hallway

and the fragment of a song

half-remembered names and faces

but to whom do they belong?

when you knew that it was over

you were suddenly aware

that the autumn leaves were turning

to the colour of his hair
like a circle in a spiral

like a wheel within a wheel

never ending nor beginning

on an ever-spinning wheel

as the images unwind
like the circles that you find
in the windmills of your mind