MY LANGUAGE IS MY SIGHT
My sight is bewitched, moved, touched. It is the vacant smile of a boy in Angola, the sensual swing of a mulatta in Brazil, the anguish and despair of a woman in Guinea-Bissau. There is light and there is shadow. It is a cry of pain and a glimmer of hope. It laughs and is weeps. It feels. It has feelings. It can never be indifferent because there are people within it.
My sight likes to walk through your sight. Slowly. Ambling back and forth. Going forth once more, to be able to return again. Keeping. Sharing. Tasting. Longing for more than is should have. Still believing it can help change others' lives. Change their world. Its soul because comes from lack of prejudice.
My sight carries the past. It feels at home in Goa, it has the faith that illuminates a church in Dili, it seeps deep into the penumbra of a street in Macau, it feels at home in moonscape of Cap-Vert. It is the empire of my senses, refuge for our feeling. It spans from Minho to Timor, with no regrets, its hand in of many other sights.
My sight has the strength and ingenuity of the present too. Thus it lives in the meandering dreams of Rio's favelas, it survives in the pock-marked walls of Cuito that still bleed. It is the light of Lisbon, the Indian ocean's tranquility. Morabeza. It has cocoa coloured skin of a roça in São Tomé and Príncipe.
My sight is mostly the future. The future before it happens. A messenger of illusion because it trusts your sight. The strength of your sight. To understand the ways of the world, of our world, to discover the right side of the road, of our road, it suffices to look at it with eyes that see. It is fire that burns and that can be seen.
My sight is my language. And it speaks the same language that your sight speaks. My sight and yours are the sight of millions that speak the same language. It is the sight of those who speak Portuguese. That is why we are together. Why we continue together. In spite of everything. One never forgets and never loses the magic of the first sight.
Jorge Araújo