Sérgio Godinho returned to sing in two large rooms, this Sunday, February 15th, at the Coliseu do Porto, and on Friday, the 14th, at Campo Pequeno, in Lisbon.
I listened to him, I applauded him, I celebrated him. And I celebrated what in my life is the memory of what got me here: the discovery of poetry, the amazement of perceiving myself in its lyrics, the tears when on deep days I knew that today or tomorrow could be the first day of my life, sharing with friends on nights when courage could even drink from an empty glass, the birth of a political consciousness made of an invisible force that is held in our arms and does not allow us to obey or give up.
Sérgio is tired, time tries to provoke him, wants you to give up, but the poet, our greatest troubadour, resists him and remains standing, even when, sometimes, he asks for a chair to sit down for a while.
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