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today, i am going to give you the opportunity to find a special text written by AGMATTVS in portuguese. here you can find what i call lerrnst googlenglishish version of this text, so if you don't like the translation, ask to the author or read the original.

"
in my country there is a strange garden. where the flowers do not grow, because they are not planted. it's people who, in pilgrimage, bring them.
there are days of courtship and, on these days, people are more generous and take more flowers. these are the days when they plant timber seeds in a deep hole.
watering with tears.

in

in this strange garden, there are no young lovers.
oh, no,
this garden does not receive many foreign visitors.

rarely younger people, only on days of courtship.


in this strange garden, there are small houses, of stone, in the main boulevard. they have a door, no windows.
in this garden there are no banks, but there are low tables, to the flowers.
in this garden, there are no electric lights, but candles. even during the day, there are candles.

not only are candles and flowers and timber seeds to be planted. also letters and numbers. and photos, small. small sculptures, too. like angels.

the low tables, the houses, the heaps of earth, everything is properly numbered. everything so organized. not like a garden.

the wall that surrounds this strange garden is not like the others. it's tall and has bars and we can only see into it by the great gates. People do not talk much of this garden. no trips, only sporadic parades.

there is a hidden secret. it was my grandmother who told me. is that in each house, low table or heaps of earth, there is a story, like a treasure buried. each of these stories is stored in the memory of those who visit this garden.



and the years have passed since this strange and strangely beautiful garden stopped being called garden. now, it has another name, something uglier. for me, however, will always be my strange garden.
in these days, so lately, it is frequented by young people. not many, but more. with a certain regularity. young people who do not wait for the parade.

i also visit. always take the same route, nothing more. follow the lane leading up to the last of the stone houses, turn left, number 20.
i take a deep breath and let me pull over. laughing or crying, i repeat to the air, the song of all times:
- so, joanna?
"