Esses mortos difíceis Que não acabam de morrer Dentro de nós; o sorriso De fotografia, A carícia suspensa, as folhas Dos estios persistindo Na poeira; difíceis; O suor dos cavalos, o sorriso, Como já disse, nos lábios, Nas folhas dos livros; Não acabam de morrer; Tão difíceis, os "amigos"
Somewhere over the rainbow Way up high And the dreams that you dream of Once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow Blue birds fly And the dreams that you dream of Dreams really do come true
Someday I'll wish upon a star Wake up where the clouds are far behind me Where trouble melts like lemon drops High above the chimney top thats where you'll find me Oh somewhere over the rainbow blue birds fly And the dreams that you dare to, oh why, oh why can't I?
Well I see trees of green and Red roses too, I'll watch them bloom for me and you And I think to myself What a wonderful world
Well I see skies of blue and I see clouds of white And the brightness of day I like the dark and I think to myself What a wonderful world
The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky Are also on the faces of people passing by I see friends shaking hands Saying, "How do you do?" They're really saying, I... I love you
I hear babies cry and I watch them grow, They'll learn much more than We'll know And I think to myself What a wonderful world
Someday I'll wish upon a star, Wake up where the clouds are far behind me Where trouble melts like lemon drops High above the chimney top thats where you'll find me. Somewhere over the rainbow way up high and the dreams that you dare to, why, oh why can't I?
All of these lines across my face Tell you the story of who I am So many stories of where I've been And how I got to where I am But these stories don't mean anything When you've got no one to tell them to It's true...I was made for you Oh yeah it's true... I was made for you
Sou alguém que escreve por gostar de escrever. Quem escreve não pode censurar o que cria e não pode pensar que alguém o fará. Mesmo que o pense não pode deixar que esse limite o condicione. Senão: Nada feito. Como dizia Alves Redol “ A diferença entre um escritor e um aprendiz, ou um medíocre, é que naquele nunca a paixão se faz retórica.”