Coimbra, May 1, 1974 ─ I have never seen a deluge of people of this nature in all my born life. Neither the procession of the Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, the largest of all held, also in May, on one of the Islands of the Azores, might be compared with what I have seen today, with tears gushing out, willingly, from my full eyes. It was like a river Tagus overflowing of people from the Square of the Republic to the University Stadium, on the river Mondego left bank.
Miguel Torga followed close to me. I tried to read in his face what he would feel within his soul. I was not successful. However, his presence in the grand civic procession gave the event a guarantee of patriotic seriousness ─ the Poetry and the Revolution hand in hand down the Avenue. God grant that this Hymen might be lasting!
Even my eldest son, Zé Manuel, who is little more than seven years old, has had his first act of domestic emancipation ─ he got lost among the crowd and only came back home by nightfall! I saw him very happy, because, according to what he said, he did it on purpose ─ he knew the streets that could lead him back. He also wanted to enjoy his share of freedom…
Judging by the crowd that joined Coimbra procession and all the others I watched on television in the evening, it gave me the idea that everyone in this country was longing for democracy. Are there not too many democrats in so small a nation? It is high time to begin to doubt so much abundance…
(From the book: Miguel Torga ─ The ploughman of the Writing ─ A Shared Path)
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