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Ainda há surpresas dentro de livros encaixados em capas cartonadas com tons laranja. Lá de dentro sai o homem dos sete instrumentos, com armónica nas beiças e unhas para arranhar as grandes e redondas formas das acústicas, sem dizer não às fender stratocaster, verdadeiras steinways portáteis, com quatro-quartos de caudas que entram ouvido adentro.

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Poeta desgrenhado.Fumador de sonhos... Dylan.

J.

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"I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night, In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light, In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea, Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.

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I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man,
Like every sparrow falling, like every Grain of Sand."

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_____________________________________________________Bob.Dylan___

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