1. The love is gone The love is gone. In a corner, for example, in Sunday's new moon after the theater and silent, just in greasy cafes, different pools of gold he began to throb, and suddenly the middle of the cigarette which he throws with rage against a car or it crushes the ashtray full, sprinkling ash scarlet nail, the acidity of the tropical dawn, after a night devoted to the posthumous joy did not come, and just love the outcome of the hands in the movies, like tentacles filled, and they move in the dark like two octopuses of solitude as join hands before they knew what love was over; insomnia in the bright arms of the clock, and just love ice cream in front of colorful iceberg between strips of aluminum mirrors and monotonous, and the eye of the knight errant who spent the pension; to Sometimes just the tortured love in the arms of Jesus, the crucified son of all women, mechanically, in the elevator, as if he lacked energy in different floor of his sister in the house love can end, the epiphany of the ridiculous claim of the whiskers, the alloys, straps, earrings and women in syllables; when the soul becomes accustomed to dusty regions of Asia, where love can be anything, love can end, the compulsion of simplicity only, on Saturday after three sips of warm gin by the pool, the child often sown, sometimes retaliated a few days, but did not flourish, opening paragraphs of inexplicable hatred between the pollen and pistil of two flowers, in refrigerated rooms, carpeted, stunned the delicacies, which has more charm than desire, and love ends in dust shed the twilight, falling imperceptibly into the kiss to come and go; in rooms enamelled with blood, sweat and despair, of the screenplays boredom to boredom in the boat, train, bus and back to nothing for nothing; cave room, bedroom love bristles and over; in hell do not get the love, the usury love dissolves; Brasilia love can turn to dust, in Rio, frivolity, in Belo Horizonte, remorse, in Sao Paulo, money, a letter arrived after the love is gone, a letter that came before, and the love is gone, the uncontrolled fantasies of libido and sometimes just the same song that started with the same drink in front of them swans, and often ends in gold and diamond, disperse among the stars, and ends at the crossroads of Paris, London, New York; the heart expands and breaks, and the doctor sentences useless to love, and ends the long tour, playing in all ports, until its collapse in the frozen seas, and just after he saw the haze that clothes the world, in the window which opens in the window that opens, sometimes not over and is forgotten just as a mirror of the stock exchange which still reverberating wrong until someone, humble, with the press, sometimes love just as if it were better never to have existed, but might end up with sweetness and hope, a word changes or articulated and just love, in fact, the alcohol in the morning, afternoon, night, in excess of spring flowering; bush in the summer, the fall in the dissonance ; in the comfort of winter, everywhere the love is gone, at any time the love is gone, for whatever reason the love is gone; to resume everywhere and at any minute the love ends. Paulo Mendes Campos