We were here before, somewhere.

Before the first mark.
            The first step,
                       the first scar,
                       the first open wound to the flesh.

Time is strange,
            and memory stranger

Now I can only remember when they started
Perhaps my subjectivity has been only encountered through pain

But they have long not seen,
            for their greed, we have been dismembered

Then we finally collapsed,
            not for revenge but from weakness

But the attention spawn will only last for as long as blood
                            it's still fresh.

For when the corpse is no longer of use,
                                            it shall be left,
                                                        on each
                                                                    side
of the road.

Warm blood has guided the soil to us, and today we have no shame to beg
                            for the soil
                                        to bury
                                        us once more.

Perhaps the real tragedy happened long before, but has been
                           unnoticed.

For every cathedral built, there’s a reversed cathedral carved. Mined, from our
                            chest.


All destruction ends in tourism.

João Bragança Gil
João Poppe Toulson
Donato Panaccio
Anat Uziely


TVI24, RTP1, SIC, Marinha Portuguesa
FreeSound.org

Estremoz, Borba e Vila Viçosa — Alentejo, Portugal