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It rains on Madeira. I become bored at this land emerged from the Atlantic by irony of a sinking continent against the submerged silence. Light first trees after Gonçalves Zarco after people after tourists at last with smiles of white

The soul of my dog went to the sky all dead' s kennel. Suddenly at full gallop perplexed spots black and white wag the solitary tail of my grief. A alma do meu cão foi para o céu canil de todos os mortos.

Art is the unfinished form colour word sound. It's monument painting poem text music in the absolute time of its creation and a simple picture after done or immortalized. (to read the original Portuguese