As estradas por onde retornamos a Beauvais são as mesmas, mas os campos já não são tão verdes como à ida para Paris. O manto de neve que se abateu sobre a cidade cobriu todo o espaço em torno de si – e então do verde dos campos se estendia à nossa chegada são agora memória vaga; substituem-lhes agora longas tiras de linho branco por entre árvores de uma nudez rara.Antes de partir, um amigo de longa data pediu-me o seguinte: “quando estiveres em Paris, se puderes passa pela Torre Eiffel, coloca uma das mãos num dos pilares, outra no coração e pensa em mim. Já estive em França mas nunca lá pude ir e foi sempre um desejo meu ir ver a torre, mas nunca aconteceu” – isto dito com olhos de quem adivinha que nunca o irá fazer levou-nos os passos até à Torre para prestar homenagem a um desejo. Da mesma forma que horas antes prestava vassalagem a outra vontade de entrar numa Patisserie e pedir uma baguette. Assim se cumpriu, mas com menos sorte do que esperava. Entrámos na primeira que encontrámos de quem vem do lado esquerdo do Panteão Nacional ao som da neve que estilhaçava a pedra das paredes… ah…Paris… sim, é tudo verdade, mas momentos mais tarde livrava-me do pão como quem sacode água do capote. Tentei então a sorte na vitrine dos croissants enquanto o Jorri e o Marco se riam sentados na suas escolhas mais afortunadas. O aeroporto é tão pequeno como o encontrámos à chegada, mas como se fora milagre, as paredes encolheram ainda mais – dezenas de pessoas aguardam sentadas nos bancos e no chão o bando de pássaros que irá partir para os céus em busca de novo caminho.
Agora que o pássaro de ferro sobrevoa os últimos campos de França, os meus olhos já observam os de Itália mesmo sem ainda os poder ver tal cerrada é a noite que as asas dele atravessa – há apenas um vislumbre de réstia de nuvens e nada mais.Nestas alturas o coração detém-se para olhar os passos que antecedem o fôlego presente – já sinto saudades do salão do Pop In e de ouvir a magia que nos trouxe um novo amigo: Mathias – de mãos onde um saxofone tem o tamanho das minhas, subiu ao palco onde o lobo dançava; agradou-lhe também a caçada. Obrigado meu bom amigo. Obrigado Mathias. A esta hora que as asas do pássaro de ferro descem para Itália, o Mathias e o Jason Edwards rondam as ruas de Paris; deixámos memória do lobo nas mãos destes novos companheiros. E agora seguimos viagem…(nunca é a noite que desce, somos nós que ao cerrar os olhos a ela descemos.)
Agora que o pássaro de ferro sobrevoa os últimos campos de França, os meus olhos já observam os de Itália mesmo sem ainda os poder ver tal cerrada é a noite que as asas dele atravessa – há apenas um vislumbre de réstia de nuvens e nada mais.Nestas alturas o coração detém-se para olhar os passos que antecedem o fôlego presente – já sinto saudades do salão do Pop In e de ouvir a magia que nos trouxe um novo amigo: Mathias – de mãos onde um saxofone tem o tamanho das minhas, subiu ao palco onde o lobo dançava; agradou-lhe também a caçada. Obrigado meu bom amigo. Obrigado Mathias. A esta hora que as asas do pássaro de ferro descem para Itália, o Mathias e o Jason Edwards rondam as ruas de Paris; deixámos memória do lobo nas mãos destes novos companheiros. E agora seguimos viagem…(nunca é a noite que desce, somos nós que ao cerrar os olhos a ela descemos.)
Joao Rui
Iron Bird (II-Pisa) - The roads from where we return to Beauvais are the same, but the fields are no longer as green as on the way to Paris. The blanket of snow that fell on the city covered all the space around her - and then the green of the fields that was stretching to our arrival are now a vague memory; they are now replaced for long strips of white linen among the trees of a rare nudity. Before Leaving, a longtime friend asked me the following: "When you're in Paris, if you can pass by the Eiffel Tower, place one hand on the pillars, one in heart and think of me. I have been to France but I was never able to go, and it was always an ambition of mine to go and see the tower, but it never happened "- that said with the eye of whom guesses or knows that he will never do it, lead us to step up to the Tower to pay homage to a wish. Like hours before I paid homage to another will by entering into a Patisserie and asking for a baguette. Thus was fulfilled, but with less luck than expected. We entered the first we found, the one that is on the left side of the National Pantheon, to the sound of the snow that was shattering against the stone walls ... ah ... Paris ... yes, it's all true, but moments later I got rid of the bread as if I was shaking the rain from my hat. I had to try my luck in the showcase of croissants while Jorri and Marco laughed sitting in their more fortunate choices. The airport is as small as I found it on arrival, but as if it were a miracle, the walls have shrunk even more - dozens of people sitting on the benches waiting for the flock that will be traveling to the heavens in search of new path. Now that the iron bird flies past the fields of France, my eyes have met the same of Italy without even being able to see, such is the night’s darkness when his wings go through her - just a glimpse of glimmer of clouds and nothing more. At such times the heart has to look at the steps hat lead up to the breath of now – I already miss the lounge of Pop In and I already miss hearing the magic that a new friend brought us: Mathias – with hands where a saxophone is the size of my hands, took the stage where the wolf was dancing; the hunt pleased him as well. Thank you my good friend. Thank you Mathias. At this time, while the wings of the iron bird are going down into Italy, Mathias and Jason Edwards roam the streets of Paris; we left memory of the wolf in the hands of new companions. And now we carry on... (it is not the night that ever goes down, it is us that by closing our eyes descend to her) Joao Rui
Iron Bird (II-Pisa) - The roads from where we return to Beauvais are the same, but the fields are no longer as green as on the way to Paris. The blanket of snow that fell on the city covered all the space around her - and then the green of the fields that was stretching to our arrival are now a vague memory; they are now replaced for long strips of white linen among the trees of a rare nudity. Before Leaving, a longtime friend asked me the following: "When you're in Paris, if you can pass by the Eiffel Tower, place one hand on the pillars, one in heart and think of me. I have been to France but I was never able to go, and it was always an ambition of mine to go and see the tower, but it never happened "- that said with the eye of whom guesses or knows that he will never do it, lead us to step up to the Tower to pay homage to a wish. Like hours before I paid homage to another will by entering into a Patisserie and asking for a baguette. Thus was fulfilled, but with less luck than expected. We entered the first we found, the one that is on the left side of the National Pantheon, to the sound of the snow that was shattering against the stone walls ... ah ... Paris ... yes, it's all true, but moments later I got rid of the bread as if I was shaking the rain from my hat. I had to try my luck in the showcase of croissants while Jorri and Marco laughed sitting in their more fortunate choices. The airport is as small as I found it on arrival, but as if it were a miracle, the walls have shrunk even more - dozens of people sitting on the benches waiting for the flock that will be traveling to the heavens in search of new path. Now that the iron bird flies past the fields of France, my eyes have met the same of Italy without even being able to see, such is the night’s darkness when his wings go through her - just a glimpse of glimmer of clouds and nothing more. At such times the heart has to look at the steps hat lead up to the breath of now – I already miss the lounge of Pop In and I already miss hearing the magic that a new friend brought us: Mathias – with hands where a saxophone is the size of my hands, took the stage where the wolf was dancing; the hunt pleased him as well. Thank you my good friend. Thank you Mathias. At this time, while the wings of the iron bird are going down into Italy, Mathias and Jason Edwards roam the streets of Paris; we left memory of the wolf in the hands of new companions. And now we carry on... (it is not the night that ever goes down, it is us that by closing our eyes descend to her) Joao Rui
