There is something about these Portuguese words with no clear translation to other languages. They tend to convey a private, exclusive and well defined emotional state, which gathers no immediate intelligibility.

Saudade is, in that sense, one of the most beautiful Portuguese creations. The word,I mean. It goes back and deep to the sense of belonging and all that it entails. It is also an intimate narrative of Portuguese history.

Having saudade is like having a dialogical feast of emotions, where sadness and melancholy abound. Feeling saudade means having an interlocutor, vague or specific, like a person or a group of individuals. It also means the impossible, which stands at the core of what stops the person to be with whom she wants to be.

Saudade is a mere window to an emotional state, inflammable element that fires the dialogue within ourselves and with others; an ocean of volatility between two distant singularities.
Saudade is A and B, and a bridge to Z. It connects the disconnections, physical frustrations of the fragile humans.

Saudade is the old ancient in the room, swinging on his chair, looking out for the static love in the unstoppable flow of the seasons.

Saudade is also fear but also love. Saudade is nothing more and nothing less, is. It has a word but it accepts no social mutation.

Saudade. Always of you, whoever you are, from me. To you.
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