Pacifico
Pacifico

"My words are stones, precise and sharp,
ready to be thrown,
at vulnerable and defenseless faces,
they are suspended clouds, full of hints,
that ignite endless expectations in the eyes
they are precious drops, unforgettable,
long yearned for and then savored,
they are fiery arrows
that the wind or fortune know how to direct

They are flashes inside a well, dark and abandoned,
a deaf and mute face illuminated by love,
they are fallen leaves, promises owed,
may time forgive you for having pronounced them
they are off-key notes, on the sheet by mistake,
traced and then forgotten,
the words I've said, or believed I said,
I admit

Clenched between my teeth,
passed, recurring,
unexpected, felt or dreamed...

My words are somersaults, snowballs in the sun,
incandescent rockets before they explode,
they are toys and mosquitoes, sand to pile up,
small prohibitions to disobey,
they have gone to sleep, surprised by a deep pain
that I cannot explain
they do as they please, they get lost in the dark
only to continue

They are endless nights, bursts of laughter,
faces overexposed to too much sun,
this is what words are,
sweet or resentful, full of respect or indecorous
They are my father and my mother,
a kiss on the head before sleep another before leaving,
the words I've said, and who knows how many more
are yet to come...
clenched between my teeth
they spare those present,
imagined, felt, or dreamed of,
swords, blows,
sighed in the dark, forgiven,
blown from a palm"

There are songs that slowly, but without caution, settle onto your life, and layer after layer, they wrap you tightly with nooses that can suffocate you, cutting deeply into unresolved moods. This is an album of great poetry, written and played in a refined and elegant manner, it succeeds like few others in getting inside you. Pacifico's greatness lies in his ability to convey deep emotions, his are small words and insights that suddenly turn you into the protagonist, and then there you are in that bedroom, and it's just morning, and you lie silently, sideways on the pillow, listening to a distant sound, a departing airplane.
So, when his stories are born in the intimacy of a room with only a piano and a dog, that place becomes yours, and you can only be alone, hearing tales of what you already know, but like winter snow and summer sun, it forcefully brings sweet and evil thoughts. Everything is true, everything is a fairy tale.