Time, loose tears on emotioned cheeks at the new notes of a song entitled "Olhar". Time which fled away and leaves on the lips the bitter-sweet taste of tears and wine mixed together. After this trip to Belgium for the two concerts of Madredeus, remain the confused memories of faces hurriedly seen and these few photos on the table, images which, for chance or necessity, didn't hold the fleeting living of these events. In these so moved photos, scribbled with errant colors as car lights on the retina of a drunk man, I see the inexorable flow of moments which could just be impressed on the heart beats... and they are gone, they are lost and passed, sunk in the rough sea of the pulse of the world. I see these photos, and in the frenzied oscillation of the lights, is the heart beat of these moments, the beat which moved my hands, which made them tremble, which made the holy light of that instant irreproducible. So, as every musician creates his ideal music in the moment in which he cannot remember it, in the same way everybody live the most exalting moments of his life in the instants in which the same life deny the witnesses. There is not photo of the emotion, because it is water which flows between the fingers of the camera's shutter... the emotion doesn't leave any trace on the silver paste of the film, but only on the golden and bloody one of the soul. And my soul keeps impressed in my lost glances the indelible reflections of these moments. I will remember at the right time those notes, those two days of Belgium on the face. And I'm happy because I know that even when I will think to lose the memory of the events, the present will rise with its valuable hint which will bring back to conscience what I thought to be lost, as the tea cup for the little Marcel. We lose our own past when we get affectionate with it and when we consider it as the altar on which we should sacrifice the present, and I have learned to live the future making the present a magnificient hint of the past. Of these new songs the serene and atmospheric tone remains. The anxiety and the restlessness of the Paradise flew away as a swallow, as a swallow of spring. And they leave in my hands a Spirit of Peace, a Spirit of Peace in Movement.


from the site Madredeus - O Porto -