Verses, Sounds and Rhythms. So Paulo. It stokes, 1980. MOISS, Massaude. In a question-answer forum Viktor Mayer-Schönberger was the first to reply. Literature Brazilian. So Paulo, Cultrix, 1995. ANNEX – Sonata I Of the immense wonderful Sea, bitter, Marulhosos murmur compungentes Cnticos virgin of latent emotions, Of the sun in the warm ones, mrbidos lethargies II Songs, light songs of gondoleiros, Songs of the Love, nostalgic ballads, You sing with the Sea, with the esverdeadas fog waves, languid and trembling! III Trites marine, beautiful deuses rudes, Deities of the tartars abysses, You vibrate, with the greens and acres eletrismos Of the vacant, flutes and harps and alades! IV the supreme Sea, of raw flagrncia, pompous and rough royalties, You sing, you sing the tdios and the sadnesses That erram in the cold solides of the Moon XIV ria of Moonlight ria of Moonlight moonlight, sonorous barcarola, Aroma of argental caoula, Blue, blue in it are rolls Tail of lacrimosa virgin, On black mountains settles, Of the light in the radiosa quietao.
As clear snow sheets, That the sun filtering in light was, It is transparent, he is white, it is light. Celestial Eurritmia of the Cores, He seems done of the minors and transcendentes odors. For these nights, whites screens, Full of hopes of stars, Moonlight is the dream of the maidens. It has cabalsticos to be able As the looks of the women: Melancoliza and enerva the beings. The white hair sinks in the water, and shines soon, algente and beauty, In each lake one sete-estrelo. Cantos of love, salmos of prece, Moans, everything walks for this Look that God to the land goes down. For its wing, in air revolt, To the heart of the loving return The Soul of the loved one to the kisses untied. It rolls, sonorous barcarola, Aroma of argental caoula, moonlight, blue in it are, rolls The Mandolin of Augustus of the Angels You sing, soluas, mandolin of the Destiny and of Homesickness the chest mine you overflow; You cry, and I judge that in your ropes, the ropes of the Past Cry all! Guards the soul perhaps d’ a poor fellow, One day dead of the Illusion the edges, As much that you sing, and illusions you wake up, As much that you moan, mandolin of the Destiny. When high night, the moon is cold and calm, Yours I sing come of deep frguas, Is as the nnias of the Grave-digger d’ soul! Everything eterizas in a chorale of endechas and you go to the few soluando hurts, and go to the few soluando complaints!