I created and sang this text and vocals myself, but a female singer with a warm soft voice would be ideal for this track. Any suggestions?
 
** The Glass Forest **

Now I need  to thank you for this most pleasant evening
in that charming restaurant,
and I agree: Serrated knifes are just perfect for steaks.

Really? What makes you think this road is creepy?
It's dark, for sure,
but it's just a twenty minutes walk to town.
Oh, yes! I've heard about the brutal killings,
the stabbed corpses.
I read the news.
They suspect there are two killers, actually. 

That's peculiar... Do you really want to have right now 
a glass of red wine in this cold dark forest?
Well, why not?
Girls enjoy surprises, you know...

This is a fascinating situation.
You see, I saw you stealing a knife when we left the restaurant,
and I saw you hide it in your jacket.
Now, guess what...
I stole a knife, too.

The Glass Forest (JFC Vocals over Debra Buesking track)

I wish I could find the words to sing my father's name.
But words seem short of meaning
and meaning so short of time
to explain eternity.

From the very first beginning,
the oldest common ancestor,
life has clinged to this rock,
the third nearest to our Sun.

And, as life came out of silence
and slowly came to existence,
the blind future was replaced
by dreams that wanted to be.

And so we're born out of miracles,
out of countless near misses,
a mix of nature and nurture,
of lucky chances and choices.

Now I wish this Autumn leaves 
could bring forth my father's voice
to bring me some words of wisdom
in this world bound to extinction.

For, when he took the decision
to bring up a family,
he added a few more notes
to a timeless symphony.

And, in each of the precious moments
that my father played with me,
I knew that we were repeating
the chords of eternity.

I Wish (JFC singing Over Debra's Piano Piece)

The title "Ballad for Alma" reminded me of an episode in the Book of Mormon, where the son of a presiding high priest went among the people, telling them to disbelief his father. Here I imagined what could be the father thoughts, with a small meditation on the nature of hope, faith, and charity.

BALLAD FOR ALMA

No one wants to be alone,
either in bliss or sorrow.
Angels above invite.
Demons from hell entice.

In the great fight for the souls
you chose to disbelieve it all,
join the skeptics, praise  the world,
delighted to play with fire.

Still I hope you'll come back home.
Hope is belief and desire.
New hearts are given to some.
Beliefs are our choice alone.

And then there's faith.
Faith is more than wishfull thinking.
Faith is hope with revelation
from the subtle mighty voice
that can burn, but cannot lie.

Thus I trust that voice to warn you.
Then you'll see and then you'll cry.
From the deepness of despair,
in the dire and lonely night,
all will seem beyond repair.
But what I told you will come to mind.
And then you'll remember the name you should call,
and it's going to be allright.

There's no charity in darkness:
It's a feature of the light.
Demons from hell entice,
but love will always invite.

Ballad For Alma JFC (Based on Neno J. guitar piece)

Although quite simple to record, it took me a few weeks to write down a text and sing it over this beautiful guitar piece from Neno J. I used the original title as an inspiration for the text.

Circle of Circles 

Planets move in the dome of stars in surprising ways.
Sometimes forward, sometimes backward  in the celestial orb.

Since perfect circles are the only way of gods,
Ptolemy used circles within circles 
to explain those planetary retrogressions.
That was such a powerful idea 
that Fourier would later use.
Indeed, any periodic smooth motion
can be described by a large enough set of epicycles.

And yet, it all became history, 
thanks to Copernic, Kepler and Newton.
The epicycles were cast out from heaven
by the Occam's razor curse.
And I'm trying to learn the sobering lesson:
Everything gets simpler 
when we don't place ourselves in the center.

Your perfect circles, woman, are the chosen shape of gods.
But will the Fast Fourier Transform ever explain your beauty?

I watch you move in this world of scars in surprising ways.
But what is forward and what is backward in this oblivious maze?

Circle Of Circles JFC (Over Neno J. Guitar Piece)

Here I just used a few passages from the Book of Isaiah, chapter 14, sung in Italian over the Francesco and Rosin beautiful collaboration. This powerful chapter in the Old Testament compares the king of Babylon to Lucifer, the fallen angel. In the troubled history of mankind we were never short of kings of Babylon. Perhaps someday...

Il soggiorno dei morti si agita per te, per venire a incontrarti al tuo arrivo.
Tutti prendono la parola e ti dicono:
Anche tu dunque sei diventato debole come noi?

Come mai sei caduto dal cielo,
astro mattutino, figlio dell'aurora?
Come mai sei atterrato,
tu che calpestavi le nazioni?

Tu dicevi in cuor tuo: Lo salirò in cielo,
innalzerò il mio trono al di sopra delle stelle di Dio.

Invece ti hanno fatto discendere nel soggiorno dei morti,
nelle profondità della fossa!
Sotto di te sta un letto di vermi,
e i vermi sono la tua coperta.

It's Almost Dawn JFC (over Francesco Cartocci Instrumental ft. Rosin Dust)

Another old recording. I noticed Google is somewaht lost in translation. The title should be translated as "I don't get it at all" (or "It's all over my head"). I now added a translation after the portuguese text.

O que eu tenho a dizer diz-se rapidamente,
porque ao fim de três linhas eles já não me ouvem.
Mas vêm de longe, todos para me ver.
Chegam aos milhares, e enchem os estádios.
E erguem os braços como ciprestes ao vento.
E eu não percebo nada.

Só lhes posso oferecer um fugaz esquecimento,
porque, ao fim de três horas, eles partem para outra.
E voltam para longe, todos para sofrer.
Partem aos milhares, e morrem nas estradas.
E cantam meus versos como se eu fosse a resposta.
E eu não percebo nada.

E, nos palcos sombrios, quedo imóvel, à espera,
perscrutando o silêncio dos estádios desertos.
Na hora do abismo, quem me irá lembrar
com harpas celestes, com rimas perfeitas?
Pai, se me ouves, diz-me que existe a resposta,
porque eu não percebo nada.

***** 
What I have to say must be quickly said,
because after three lines they no longer listen.
But they come from afar, they all come to see me.
They number in the thousands, and they fill the stadiums.
And they raise their arms like cypresses in the wind.
And it's all over my head.

I can only offer them a short forgetfulness,
because, after three hours, they leave for the next thing.
And they go back to far away places, all to suffer.
They leave by the thousands, and die on the roads.
And they sing my verses as if I was the answer.
And it's all over my head.

And on the dark stages, I stay motionless, waiting,
peering into the silence of the deserted stadiums.
In the hour of the abyss, who will remind me
with celestial harps, with perfect rhymes?
Father, if you hear me, tell me that there is an answer,
because it's all over my head.

Não Percebo Nada

I like to create miniatures, very short songs that convey an idea, and are done.

** Happy Birthday! **

This is the day we celebrate
the very special date
you came into this world.
Therefore I came. Surprise, surprise!
You were born at sunrise,
so here's the Sun for you! (A truly green gift!)
Her face turned red, then it turned white.
Although my gift was true,
and so right,
it came out of the blue.
She told me: From you, I confess,
I expected nothing less
than gold, incense an myrrh.

Happy Birthday!

It's quite mysterious why some things seem obvious to our understanding. I guess that worms and insects may have a totally different perception of what is obvious. And, as we learn to see, the set of what seems obvious to our minds may also evolve. And we may even be obviously wrong...

== LEARNING TO SEE ==

No, light does not lie.
Light is truth, by definition,
and photons never lie.
But lone photons say nothing at all.
When Hubble tapped the dark sky
it sensed photons one by one,
slowly generating the image
of a deep field immensity.
And some saw galaxies there,
because they had learned to see.
They saw galaxies in all those bright dots on that dark photograph.
That was obvious to them, yet not for me.
And I trust them. 
What else can I do?
I know how often I'm blind to what I'm looking at.

Right now,
I look at you in this quiet evening, 
wondering how much we learned to see.
Is it obvious to you how much I love you?
Is it obvious to you?

Learning To See (based on Anastasiya Ihnatovich piano piece)

Dedicated to the genius of Henri Poincaré and Évariste Galois. And also to the many more that feel totally lost in maths.

Ô mathématiques sévères,
où j'ésperais trouver la paix,
loin des passions et des misères...
Logiquement, je me trompais.

Ô mathématiques sévères,
qui accablent mon coeur divisé!
Je multiplie en vain les prières,
sans rien soustraire ou ajouter...

Dans un ruban de Moebius
c'est la même face des deux cotés.
Et, en furetant un peu plus,
on trouve même un Poincaré.

J'apprends la joie et la misère
d'un infini de nullités.
Je ne sais plus ce que j'intègre,
à la dérive pour dériver.

Et je me perds dans les fonctions
sur des espaces insensés,
qui tuent, à coups d'abstraction,
tous mes efforts pour raisonner.

Peut-être tout ce qui éxiste
est juste une probabilité.
Dans l'Univers combinatoire
je suis une possibilité.

Ô mathématiques sévères
ou j'éspérais trouver les lois
placées à l'aube des mystères
par le décret du Roi des Rois.

Dans le vertige des données,
je viens ici crouler par terre,
comptant les morts et les blessés,
les sanglants chiffres de la guerre.

Je sens la plume de Galois
écorchant les feuilles de papier
pour démontrer encore une fois
le desespoir des condamnés.

Ô mathématiques sévères,
où j'ésperais trouver la paix,
loin des passions et des misères...
Logiquement, je me trompais.

0==============0

O severe mathematics,
where I hoped to find peace,
far from passions and miseries...
Logically, I was wrong.

O severe mathematics,
which overwhelm my divided heart!
I multiply my prayers in vain,
without subtracting or adding anything...

In a Moebius strip
it's the same side on both sides.
And, looking around a little more,
we even find a Poincaré. (i.e. a square point)

I learn the joy and misery
of an infinity of nullities.
I no longer know what I am integrating,
drifting in derivation.

And I get lost in the functions
on insane spaces
that kill, with strikes of abstraction,
all my efforts to reason.

Maybe everything that exists
is just a probability.
In the combinatorial Universe
I'm just a possibility.

O severe mathematics
where I hoped to find the laws
placed at the dawn of mysteries
by the decree of the King of Kings.

In the dizziness of data,
I come here to collapse on the ground,
counting the dead and wounded,
the bloody numbers of the war.

I feel the pen of Galois
peeling the sheets of paper
to demonstrate once again
the despair of the condemned.

O severe mathematics,
where I hoped to find peace,
far from passions and miseries...
Logically, I was wrong.

Ô Mathématiques Sévères! (based on L'Envol from Gérald Olivieri)

Christmas: A birthday celebration where we tend to forget whose birthday it is.

Não há lugar, não há qualquer estalagem.
Já não há espaço no coração.
Não há milhões que prestem homenagem.
Não há louvores da multidão.
Dá-me tua luz, oh vem guiar os passos meus.
Dá-me tua luz, filho de Deus.
Como os pastores que os anjos convidaram
Deus dá convites a todos nós.
Abençoados os que não esperaram
e atenderam à Sua voz.
Dá-me tua luz, oh vem guiar os passos meus.
Dá-me tua luz, filho de Deus.

Natal 2023

** Discussing the Menu ** 

Discussing the menu will never nourish our bodies. 
Shall we stop talking for a while?
Just point your finger to show me where the meal is,
and I'll go and feed myself. 

Yes, I know...
Pointing fingers can be rude.
But that's collateral damage of a basic cognitive activity.
For many words we use, pointing precedes meaning. 
We can point at the sea and say: "Look! The sea!" 
And thus we can assign names to the beasts, the trees and the stars. 
That's the miracle of pointing. 
Somehow we understand that we are naming a thousand  things, 
not giving a thousand names to the stupid pointing finger.

And thus, as we understand each other, 
we are both edified while rejoicing together.
Joy is the secret prize of sharing,
a prize beyond words or the ringing sound of bells.
A wordless no bell prize.   

And there's so much more to understand
than the things we can perceive 
with our feeble ears and naked eyes...
Did you know?
Gobi camels shed tears
when they are sung 
ancient Mongolian lullabies.

Discussing The Menu (Based on Yann Kifer's Bella track)

Well, I'm a grandpa now, so I recorded this to celebrate my new status.

DANIEL

Daniel came into this world and made my day.
Snow was falling in Utah so far away.
Hope you'll find there lots of love, and, if you cry,
your dad will sing you lullabies.

Soon you will become a man, and I'll be gone.
I hope you'll find then what it means to have a son.
Will you hold him in your arms, and, if he cries,
will you sing him lullabies?

Someday we may just be names once carved in stone,
and the memories of our birth will all be gone.
Others will comfort their children as they cry.
But will they sing them lullabies?

Daniel

*** Take a Pen ***

Does the Moon exist when no one is looking?
That's a deep question.
What do we mean by no one?
What do we mean by looking?
Surely what exists requires some kind of record.
Even the smallest particles remember their measured spin.
In that smallest world no information is lost
and the cat in the box will be dead or alive
long before we take a look inside.

Compared to atoms,  
we're gigantic beings
experiencing the constant rise of entropy.
The information is there, but we can no longer reach it.
It does take an effort to preserve our memories.
In total amnesia we don't even know who we are.
So take a pen. 
We can't write our journals using an eraser.
Take a pen.
Surely, there's a time to forgive and forget,
and get rid of the burdens that stop us from finding peace.
Oh! Blessed entropy that allow us to learn
how to turn the pages of hate, shame and sorrow!
But, as we rise to heaven, we still need to remember.
Can't you see?
We can't turn the pages that were never written.

Consider the children in Africa
staring at the weary blackboards
dreaming of reading and writing.
But many just can't afford a pencil.
Do they even exist when no one is looking?
So take a pen
and send a pencil.

Take a Pen (over Debra Buesking's Nautilus)

Dedicated to all those who do ridiculous idiotic dangerous things in order to go viral in the internet.

*** Going Viral ***

McLuhan's vision of a global village has now become reality.
I've got ideas, but, with so many talking, they are now really hard to sell.
Although today, with so many listening, it's a wonderful time to tell.

Wake up my love!
Let's praise this morning to the world, and let's go viral!
Let's post our unquenched thirst for knowledge!
Let's tap the limits of what is possible!
I've got the perfect research area:
Let's try to ignite our noisy flatulences!
5, 4, 3, 2, 1, ignition...

Oh! Davy lamps that lighten our dark coal mines,
why didn't we take your sound advice?
So now we're staying at the hospital emergencies,
stuttering embarrassing explanations.
It was just another tragedy of science:
The slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact.

But all is well, my love.
We did went viral!...

Going Viral (sang over Sounds M "Flashback" track)

For those who love Jules Verne... While trying ideas for Debra Buesking's Nautilus (the collab was named Take a Pen), I wrote down this text, and later found that Dave Rose's nostalgic instrumental provided a nice ambiance to sing it. Dave was kind enough to allow me to use it.

Seagulls recorded by Bruno Auzet.

** Nautilus Lost **

From the depths of despair
and the maelstroms of emotions
Captain Nemo rammed the ships
for the sake of revenge.

Searching the oceans for a vague relief
he roamed the deep an crushing emptyness.
He fought, encircled by giant squids,
once imprisoned by treacherous  ice.

He searched for the ships
that flew on their stern the hated flag.
He scored in vain.
He could not heal the pain he felt for his slaughtered children,
the sorrow for his murdered wife.
He rammed the ships
and watched them go down
as sunsets of his lonely life.

Nautilus Lost (based on Dave Rose's instrumental "Loss")

Created a long time ago, sometime in the eighties, inspired by Saint Exupéry classic short novel. I'm just playing the piano and singing some vocals, minimalist arrangement. With time I may do more takes to handle the imperfections.

Aircraft engine sound captured by Thomas Ryder Payne.

E as cartas voavam.
Chegavam do céu as respostas,
até que o vento se fartou do abuso.
O homem na torre empalideceu,
ao ver que a hora da chegada
só trouxe o silêncio do céu vazio...
Apáticos esperámos na noite o cantar do teu motor.
O socorro amigo subiu e desceu em vão.
Nenhum vestígio. Nenhuma cruel constatação.
Subitamente percebo que o tempo estava cansado de ti...
Ajuda-me.
O que é que eu vou dizer em tua casa?
Como é que eu vou explicar o teu fim?
Milhões de estrelas não dizem nada,
e brilham, como a rir-se de mim,
beijando a sul o mar, a leste o rio,
a oeste a dor, a norte o frio.
Oh céus! Oh vida!...

Quando cheguei à tua porta, um gira-discos tocava.
Roda que dança de luto, lembrança a girar
trinta e três por minuto, para me enfeitiçar.
Ai silêncio, vem-me ajudar.
Vê que as linhas da mão não me fazem chorar.
Roda triste, de onde vem teu pesar?

Vol De Nuit 2024

A poem from my late father. An old tape I recovered.

** Sinfonia dos Mundos **

Que faço aqui, eu que vou
tentando o verso e a prosa
num Cosmos que começou
por uma explosão monstruosa?

Que tenho a ver com o percurso
do hélio e do hidrogénio,
com o teórico discurso
desses físicos de génio,
que tentam aprisionar
o real em equações,
e compatibilizar
galáxias e electrões?

Nada tenho. E, no entanto,
leio seus livros profundos,
buscando a chave do canto
da sinfonia dos mundos.

Sinfonia Dos Mundos

Another old track from the nineties, about a family fleeing Jerusalem soon before the city was taken by the Babylonians.

*** Primeiro Passo ***

Até a mais longa caminhada começa pelo primeiro passo,
a primeira dor, e um último adeus à terra da herança.
Fugimos esta noite como fogem as lembranças,
deixando Jerusalém, a que mata seus profetas.
Jerusalém, Jerusalém,
abraçamos-te esta noite como te abraçam as estrelas,
que se entornam em silêncio para além do horizonte...
Agora a mais longa caminhada começa pelo primeiro passo.
Levamos os olhos cheios de terras invisíveis,
e o coração queimado pelo fogo das promessas.
Levamos mulheres e filhos por rotas impossíveis.
Decerto impossíveis...
Mas foi Deus quem ordenou a caravana.
Sim, foi Deus quem ordenou a caravana...

Primeiro Passo

Very old and lonely. Just me and a Korg Wavestation playing in the background. I tried here a different equalization from the previously posted Prego a Fundo.

Volta ao mundo. Volta ao nada. Volta ilimitada.
Prego a fundo. Autoestrada. Noite ultrapassada.
Sem passado. Sem futuro. Um salto no escuro.
Adeus plaino. Adeus monte. Bem-vindo, horizonte.
Sem sorrir. Sem chorar. Nada no olhar
Nem partir, nem chegar. Apenas passar.
Marcha-atrás, marcha à frente? É quase indiferente.
No infinito desta esfera já ninguém me espera. 
Volta ao mundo. Volta ao nada. Noite ilimitada.
Nem desejo, nem saudade. Só eternidade...

Petrus Castrus

Volta Ao Mundo

*** Rien Ne Va Plus. ***

Faites vos jeux!
Moi, je veux bien, car mon système est infaillible.
Je vais placer tous mes jetons d'une façon sûre et progressive
a chaque tour doublant la mise sur tous les manques de passion.

Les jeux sont faits!
Mon indecision est prise:
Je vais crever refléchissant si j'aurais dû marier Denise
si j'aurais dû tuer Bertrand
si j'aurais dû doubler la mise, passionément, a la folie,
au lieu d'épouser Sophie
et m'enliser dans la routine de tous ces piètres cependants
de tous ces tièdes caquetages...
Oui! J'aurais voulu doubler la mise pour annoncer mes finalements.

Rien ne va plus!
Dans ce tripot clandestin
je vois enfin la vérité des martingales
mes yeux figés pour contempler
la danse affreuse et inégale des mains habiles du croupier
poussant la bille et le manchon
pour amorcer les pièges à cons.

Faites vos jeux... 
Les jeux sont faits, rien ne va plus...

Il faut partir. Je suis fauché.
Je n'ai plus rien à faire ici.
Malgré tout ce que j'avais promis,
j'ai gaspillé tous mes jetons
dans la folie des illusions.
Comme un voleur lassé de nuits,
je prends la route, en écoutant
un sourd appel au seuil des vents.

Rien Ne Va Plus (over Gérald Oliviéri "Mysteries and Investigations")

What comes after the after of the after of the after of the after of the after (etc.)?... 

The small intro was made by my son Filipe.

E depois do meu braço, o que há? 
E depois deste muro, o que tem?
E depois deste mar, o que está?
E depois deste mundo, o que vem?
E depois desta lua, o que há?
E depois de Plutão, o que tem?
E depois da galáxia, o que está?
E depois de depois?
E depois, o quê?...
Há mais?!

Minha terra azul, girando no espaço
no carrossel de estrelas, presa por nada...
Deus pintou o céu com seu forte braço.
Segura-te ao pincel, que ele já tirou a escada.
As pedras cadentes deixam seu traço.
Riscam o infinito até madrugada.
Levam meus desejos, e um grande abraço
para todos os destinos da noite encantada.

O Quê?

A Portuguese Cyrano, how would he be?

I have an older version (not published here) with a faster tempo. Here I tried to slow it down to see if it still works.


Nascido para vencer,
senhor do meu nariz.
Mas tu podes crer:
Nunca serei nada neste país
à beira-mar plantado.
Já não escapo do meu fado.
Só me resta ser feliz.

E as melodias, e os sonhos desta arte
seguem-nos,
seguem-nos por toda a parte.
E ao partirmos com as lembranças,
com o talento, com a esperança e o sentimento
de uma nova madrugada,
é um novo dia, cheio de versos, de poesia,
e a suave companhia de umas tágides anafadas.
E as doces brisas, e os furacões da sorte
levam-nos
levam-nos para além da morte.

Porque a vida eterna é esta:
Que te conheçam a ti só
por único Deus verdadeiro
e a teu filho, a quem enviaste.

E, ao repousar na terra,
os corpos unem-se às raízes
e as vidas áridas e estéreis
crescem lindas e felizes.

Nascido para vencer, senhor deste país.
Mas tu podes crer: Nunca serei dono do meu nariz
na face mal plantado.
Já não escapo do meu fado.
Só me resta ser feliz.

Nascido Para Vencer (2024)

A peculiar peace invades the heart when we do the right thing.

Uma estranha paz invade o coração
quando se faz o bem.
Sou bem capaz de amar o bem
só pela paz que ao mundo vem
quando Deus entorna o céu.

E, se eu chegar ao céu, serei um rio de Deus
para dar de beber aos filhos meus.
E, se eu chegar ao céu, em rio me irei tornar
para ver os meus filhos navegar.

O amor é luz, não se apaga.
Brilha para sempre no tempo.
Enche de paz a minha alma.
Onde há amor não há medo.

Uma Estranha Paz

I started writing this in the seventies and first recorded it in the eighties. Finally decided to give it a new try. Just piano and vocals, with a touch of acoustic guitar, accordeon, and a few percussions.

Assenta os dois pés na beira do abismo.
Enfrenta o mar. Resiste ao vento.
Não caias. Não temas.
Para quê nervosismo?
Despreza a vertigem. Respira o momento.
Não olhes para terra.
Verás a origem de tanta aventura,
de tanto lamento,
do patriotismo.
Verás desse monte os mastros desertos
que crescem e murcham no longe horizonte
com os braços abertos.
Cada barco carrega uma cruz
constrói um caminho no mar-labirinto de ventos incertos
e estradas de luz.

Os mastros por vezes dão frutos
e trazem notícias, saudades,
carícias de vagas fatais
que inventaram delícias
para os cascos cansados que dormem no cais.

E quando uma voz chamar na distância
verás a sereia, o ouro, a ganância.
Cairás com um grito.
Verás nessa altura que a pátria é um mito.
Só existe a vontade, a aventura, a ilusão.
Só existe a saudade que levas contigo
como um porto de abrigo no teu coração.

A saudade vai
no teu coração
como um porto de abrigo.

The Google translator produced a nice English translation:

Place both feet on the edge of the abyss.
Face the sea. Resist the wind.
Don't fall. Don't be afraid.
Why be nervous?
Ignore vertigo. Breathe in the moment.
Don't look at land.
You will see the origin of so much adventure,
of so much lamentation,
of patriotism.

From that mountain you will see the deserted masts
that grow and wither on the distant horizon
with open arms.
Each boat carries a cross
and builds a path in the labyrinthine sea of ​​uncertain winds
and roads of light.

The masts sometimes bear fruit
and bring news, memories,
caresses of fatal waves
that invented delights
for the tired hulls that sleep on the dock.

And when a voice calls in the distance
you will see the mermaid, the gold, the greed.
You will fall with a scream.
At that moment you will see that the homeland is a myth.
There is only the desire, the adventure, the illusion.
There is only the longing that you carry with you
like a safe haven in your heart.

Longing goes
in your heart
like a safe haven.

Porto De Abrigo

There was blood on the doorframes 
of the homes that were spared
as the weeping of Egyptian mothers 
was heard through the night. 
Innocents died. 
Mysterious are the ways of the righteous fights.

So strange that innocent blood is the price of freedom.
We were told to eat and drink to remember.
And, as I seat at the sacred table, 
I refrain from looking around, searching for the traitor.
It could be me…

Mysterious Are The Ways (based ond Debra Bueskings' "The Sound of Memory" solo piano version)

COMPLICADAMENTE

Maria, para quê fazer simples,
se o posso fazer complicadamente?
Tu já me conheces, tu sabes o quanto eu aprecio
nunca seres simplesmente.

Tudo o que faço e digo, o faço e digo complicadamente.
Sou inimigo, sempre fui inimigo do simplesmente.
Que o simplesmente complica-me com os nervos,
baralha-me as ideias.
Sabe-me ao primarismo desses servos
que broncamente arrastam as cadeias.
São estas as principais razões porque ajo e penso complicadamente,
e que, por paradoxo, são a chave
de um outro e bem mais simples simplesmente:
Maria. Simplesmente Maria...

Not easy to capture the ambiguities of the portuguese lyrics, but here goes a try:
COMPLICATED WAY
Mary, why should I do things in a simple way, if I can do them in a complicated way?
You know me, you know how much I appreciate that you don't simply exist.

Everything I do and say, I do and say it in a complicated manner.
I'm wary, I've always been wary of the "simply",
because the "simply" gets on my nerves, confuses my ideas.
It tastes to me like the rudimentary nature of those servants that drag their chains in a clumsy way.
These are the main reasons I think and act in a complicated manner.
And this, paradoxically, is the key for another and much simpler "simply":
Mary. Simply Mary.

Complicadamente

The man in the center of the photograph is the grandfather of my father's mother. Celebrating  some milestone of his military career in the Austro-Hungarian army.

Desde quando é que os homens não choram?
Desde quando é que o sonhos não matam de amor?
Desde sempre que os dias namoram
as ruas do inferno calcadas de dor.
É difícil falar do que sinto.
Nunca fui mui bonito, nunca fui muito esperto.
Eu preciso de fé para saber,
e de ainda mais fé para escolher o que é certo.
Perguntem a Pôncio Pilatos
de que serve encontrar a verdade infinita,
se a própria verdade de cala
e nos deixa perdidos nos escolhos da vida,
com silêncios pesados na sala,
com remorsos silentes de lutas perdidas,
com ciúmes das horas felizes
que nos abandonaram no palco dos dias.
Não me digam que os homens não choram,
não me digam que os homens não quebram de dor.
Perguntem a César caído.
Perguntem a Brutus se é bom ser traidor.
Preciso entender o que sinto.
Nunca fui mui bonito, nunca fui muito esperto,
mas preciso fazer o que é certo.
Quanto ao resto, não sei.
Só sei mesmo que dói.

Os Homens Nao Choram

I created this song a long time ago. My son Filipe made a mix that was placed in Spotify. Here goes my mix.

Já não há mais caravelas,
porque os heróis do passado
voltaram do fim do mundo,
enterraram o horizonte.
Já não há mais caravelas,
mas o sonho é que não para.
Vai vencendo as tempestades
na distância imaginária.
Sentados à secretária
para aqui vamos navegando,
cá nos vamos afogando,
mas a sede não nos larga.

Será que ainda há fim do mundo?
Será que ainda há horizonte?
Já não há mais caravelas,
mas a vida é que não para.
Vai vencendo as tempestades
da espiral inflacionária.
Nesta confusão diária
para aqui vamos navegando,
cá nos vamos afogando,
mas a sede não nos larga.

Nossos pais naufragaram
para verem o mundo até à última gota de mar.
E eu também quero ir...

Google translate gets a little lost, so here it goes:

There are no more caravels,
because the heroes of the past
returned from the end of the world,
buried the horizon.
There are no more caravels,
but our dreaming never stops.
It overcomes the storms
in the imaginary distance.
Sitting at the desk
here we keep sailing,
here we keep drowning,
but the thirst won't leave us.

Is there still an end to the known world?
Is there still an horizon?
There are no more caravels,
but life keeps going on.
It  keeps overcoming the storms
of the inflationary spiral.
In this daily mess
here we keep sailing,
here we keep drowning,
but this thirst won't leave us.

Our fathers shipwrecked
to see the world down to the last drop of sea.
And I also want to go...

Ja Nao Há  Mais Caravelas (Mix JFC)

Credit Note: The children ambient sound is from InspectorJ in Freesound

Prometer é nobre, cumprir é burguês.
Para dar esperança aos pobres, prometo outra vez.

Com o nobre desígnio de te aliviar
do fardo pesado que tens de levar,
do peso da vida, do medo da noite
do medo da fome, da dor, do açoite,

Eu canto vitórias, prometo bem-estar,
prometo que o dia está mesmo a chegar 
com frutos da terra, com bênçãos do céu,
e vidas gloriosas para além do véu.

E, mesmo sabendo quão fraco é o falar,
tu olhas meus olhos querendo acreditar.

Prometer é nobre, cumprir é burguês.
Em nome da esperança, prometo outra vez

Prometer é nobre, cumprir é burguês.
Para salvar teus sonhos, prometo outra vez.

Prometo saúde onde ela não há
Prometo alegria onde ela não está
prometo repouso para a alma cansada
prometo fartura nesta consoada

Prometo ternura e um beijo ao luar
prometo que o amor nunca irá acabar
prometo um abraço humilde e sincero
que espante os demónios da dor que eu não quero. 

E, mesmo sabendo quão certo é o falhar,
tu olhas meus olhos querendo acreditar.

Prometer é nobre, cumprir é burguês.
Olho nos teus olhos, e prometo outra vez.

Prometer é nobre, cumprir é burguês.
Para dar esperança aos pobres, prometo outra vez.

Orçamento de Estado

** A QUESTÃO DO FUTURO **

Por muito negro que seja o livro do passado,
o futuro é sempre uma página em branco...

Se queres saber o que é o futuro,
dou-te uma resposta inocente:
É como um filho prematuro
da gravidez que é o presente.

Porque o presente sempre está
com a barriga dilatada,
sempre a parir um venho já,
um porvir que ainda agora é nada.

Convém agora meditar:
Esse porvir, esse talvez,
é tempo para nos libertar
da nossa humana insensatez.

Dá-me tua mão. Vamos dançar,
que esse porvir, esse talvez,
talvez nos traga um madrugar
que leve as dores da gravidez.

Penso que o mais que podemos
fazer nesta curta vida
é tocar com a mão que temos
outra que esteja estendida.

E, desse contacto breve,
tentar extrair a verdade,
um feixe de luz que leve
ao fundo da eternidade.

Here is an English translation:

** The Question of the Future **

No matter how dark the book of the past is,
the future is always a blank page...

If you want to know what the future is,
I'll give you an innocent answer:
It's like a premature baby
of the pregnancy that is the present.

Because the present is always
with a dilated belly,
always giving birth to an I'm coming,
an upcoming that is yet still nothing.

It is now worth meditating:
This future, this perhaps,
is a given time so we can get free
of our human foolishness.

Give me your hand. Let's Dance,
because this future, this maybe,
may perhaps bring us a dawn
that will take away the pains of pregnancy.

I think the most we can
do in this short life
is to touch with our hand
another that is begging.

And, from that brief contact,
try to extract the truth,
a beam of light that will takes us
to the end of eternity.

A Questão Do Futuro

Violin played by Steven Lehnhof.

PARAÍSO PERDIDO
Não me vai servir de muito ter nascido em Portugal:
somos todos as cobaias de uma experiência global.
Louvamos o crescimento, as empresas de sucesso,
os triunfos do momento a que chamamos progresso.
Transparece nessas histórias o optimismo dos catraios,
o canto de aves simplórias poisadas nos pára-raios.
Quando batermos no muro, iremos ver com horror
que buscámos o futuro num espelho retrovisor.
E, no dia do desaire, o optimista ainda dirá:
"Não se assustem, que esta noite decerto o Sol brilhará!"
Não me vai servir de muito haver camas no hospital:
Somos todos as cobaias de uma experiência mortal.
Exaustos, no movimento a que chamamos progresso,
sentimos no desalento a saudade de um regresso.
Mas não há nada no regresso.
Não há nada nesse tempo sem angústia ou sofrimento,
na monótona existência sem fracasso e sem sucesso
duma estéril inocência.

PARADISE LOST
It won't help me much to be born in Portugal: We are all guinea pigs in a global experiment. 
We praise economic growth and successful business, the triumphs of the moment that we call progress. 
The optimism of little children transpires in all these praises, like the singing of naive birds perched on lightning rods. 
The day we shall hit the wall, we will discover with horror that we have driven towards the future while looking at a rear view mirror. 
Still, in the middle of disaster, the optimist will keep saying: Don't be scared, tonight the sun will surely shine. 
It won't help me much to have beds available in the hospitals: We are all guinea pigs in a deadly experiment.
Lost in this frenziness we call progress, we feel in our dismay the longing for a return.
But there's nothing in that return. 
There is nothing in that time without anguish or suffering, 
in that monotonous existence, with no failure or success, 
of a sterile innocence.

Paraíso Perdido

L'ami c'est l'étendart des temps qu'on se souvient.
C'est pas comme  la passion. On ne pleure pas quand il part. On rit quand il revient.
Comme un coup de tonerre venu d'un ciel sérein, il vient pour boire un verre,
pour reveiller nos rêves et les vieilles chansons
de nos jours qui s'achèvent sur la grande question:
Elle est partie où 
la folie d'antan,
quand on cassait les rames sur le lac Léman?

Les Amis

*** NOTE June 2024: Generative AI is becoming amazingly powerful. Nothing against it. Just to avoid the confusion and embarrassment of finding ourselves praising and encouraging mindless algorithms, I believe it would be nice for us to always disclose its usage in our tracks. What do you think?  ***

Hello, welcome to my page.

I've been making music with Pedro Castro since 1972. At the time, we created the alternative rock band Petrus Castrus. The music I'm placing here are just the home recordings of ongoing projects and ideas. I created a few playlists (Inéditos) according to language (PO - Portuguese; EN - English; SP - Spanish; FR - French; IT - Italian), and also for concept albums (Três Jardins). There are two long tracks (Mediterrâneo and Isaías) for full concept albums. A playlist called Synergies gathers the collaboration projects with other musicians in the fantastic SoundCloud community.

Petrus Castrus edited records can be found on Spotify and Soundcloud. See the Facebook Petrus Castrus page for more details, including comments about the recordings uploaded here. 

We are both amateur musicians, i.e. music lovers. As for me, I'm just an electrical engineer with a master in AI that really loves creating music and use it to share ideas. That is why all tracks include lyrics or texts.

Enjoy!

José F Castro - JFC (Petrus Castrus)

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