I am, concentrated, composing some verses. I feel my mind boiling. I jump from a dictionary to my draft, alter words, conjure up images, and idealize the ideal rhythm. I find a word, fit it into a verse; but I hit the brakes. “Avanças“: this verb lacks rhyme. I want brilliance, I condense the efforts, I energetically stimulate the thought. Then I hear a whisper: “Esquivanças, esquivanças!” Ah, Camões… what a surprise! I automatically smile: I have won the day! An excellent rhyme, excellent, but… what to say? how to disguise my rudeness? I keep smiling. I cannot simply say that times have changed; it is my verses, Mr. Camões, specifically my verses, that have this innate aridity that is refractory to your brilliance and your sensitivity. I do not know how to make this kind of rhyme. Even if I wanted to, even if I force, my fingers will not type this word inside a verse. But I thank you, I thank you very much. I will spend the rest of the day, like a madman, laughing to myself.
A Whisper
