Lyrics

Covardes que se alimentam
Dos meus pesadelos

Pedaços que eu juntei não se completam
As cores não existem mais
Seus planos diabólicos trouxeram pesadelos

Pesadelos

Pesadelos

De um lado amor com doses de veneno
De outro amigos desleais
Covardes que se alimentam dos meus pesadelos Outra vez

Desconfiei mas
Não tive forças pra lutar
E me entreguei mais

Outra noite acordado, buscando motivos
Tentando entender
Outra noite sem Você

Outra Noite

Outra noite acordado, contando os minutos
Tentando entender
Outra noite sem Você

Outra noite

Covardes

Então busquei Paz
Eu precisava perdoar
E não chorei mais

Outra noite acordado, joelho dobrado
Não vou me esconder
Outra noite com Você

Outra noite

Acordado

Torturado

Massacrado

Fui curado

Outra noite acordado, Jesus do meu lado
Não vou mais sofrer
Outra noite com Você

Psicóticos

Diabólicos

Maquiavélicos

Psicóticos

Maquiavélicos

Psicóticos

Diabólicos

Maquiavélicos

Não lutei sozinho dessa vez

The Secret and Inspiration

I was ten years old when I learned that doors can close silently. My father didn’t just leave home — he left responsibility, presence, provision. When a father leaves like that, he doesn’t just take his suitcases; he takes the ground beneath his child’s feet. My mother stayed, but staying is not the same as remaining. There was a body in the house, but there was no structure.

I grew up between absences and debts, between neglect and survival, and the streets of São Paulo taught me early that affection is a luxury and protection is luck. I learned to fend for myself, to fight, to depend on no one — and, more dangerously, to believe that if I became strong enough, indispensable enough, no one would ever abandon me again.

That belief followed me into adulthood disguised as ambition. At the multinational company, I gave twenty years of my life — not just working hours, but lost birthdays, sleepless nights, impossible targets achieved through sheer hatred of mediocrity. I did not work merely for a salary; I worked for belonging. I wanted to be part of something vast, solid, unquestionable. I wanted someone to say, “He’s essential.”

For a time, they did. Until politics shifted, meetings closed without me, and looks that once welcomed me began to measure me. Corporate betrayal is not explosive; it is administrative. One day you are structure. The next, you are cost. And once again, a door closed silently.

But nothing compared to that morning in Oeiras. The apartment was still ours. The children were still asleep in the next rooms. The routine still pretended normality. Daniela was already dressed — too dressed, perfume chosen with intention, hair carefully arranged. Her mother had come from Brazil “to help,” and I tried to believe it was emotional support. They went for a walk in Lisbon.

I stayed behind in an apartment whose silence had texture — thick, almost visible. Hours later I opened social media and saw Lisbon, smiles, landscapes, lightness. And him. My close friend. A frequent guest in my home. A witness to my life. The walk was not tourism. It was substitution. There were no shouts, no confrontation. There was a post. And in that instant, every silent door from my childhood slammed shut inside me again.

The word surfaced like acid: cowards. Not just them — the repetition. Absent father. Political enterprise. Disloyal friend. Abrupt wife. The pattern was merciless: you are not chosen. The nights that followed were endless. I counted minutes instead of sheep. I reviewed images I should never have searched for.

I tortured myself with explanations, hunting for the precise fracture point where everything collapsed. I suspected. I sensed. But I did not fight. And that consumed me. Guilt has teeth. I wondered whether I had been naïve, whether I had trusted too much, worked too much, loved too much — or simply had never been enough.

Inside me, the ten-year-old boy sat beside the forty-something man and asked the same question: “Why always me?” It was not in a studio but in that dark room that the music was born — not from inspiration, but from abyss. “Cowards who feed on my nightmares.” Real nightmares, awake and asleep.

I felt conspiracy, organized exclusion, decisions made without me and about me. The words that came — psychotic, diabolical, Machiavellian — were not rational analysis; they were defense mechanisms. I needed to keep the monsters outside so they would not grow inside me.

When everything collapses, you search for something that will not. I no longer had family as I knew it, nor close friends, nor job, nor marriage. I needed something to lean on. Spirituality became both crutch and structure. “Bent knee” sounded poetic, but the need was visceral.

I needed to believe I was not alone — because I had already fought alone my entire life. “I didn’t fight alone this time,” I repeated, perhaps trying to convince myself. But it worked. The music first became a scream, then a purge, then silence. And that silence marked the beginning of healing.

Time altered the temperature of memory. Hatred cooled into sadness; sadness revealed fear — because I now understood how dangerous that mental state had been. Yet beneath the pain, responsibility emerged. At some point, I too may have been a coward: when I stayed silent to avoid conflict, when I chose work over warning signs, when I postponed difficult conversations, when I used strength as a shield instead of a bridge.

Human beings fail. I failed. They failed. Cowardice is not the privilege of villains; it is fragility poorly managed.

Today I no longer want to prove that I am indispensable. I do not want to belong at any cost or win invisible wars. I want my head held high. I want acceptance of the human condition in its imperfection — that abandonment wounds but does not define, that betrayal scars but does not erase essence, that doors close with or without sound. The ten-year-old boy does not need to fight alone anymore.

If I must carry anything forward, let it be conscience: that I do not repeat patterns, that I do not run from conversations, that I do not replace presence with pride, that I am not a coward with myself. The rest belongs to the past — and the past, at least, no longer posts.

New Zeland - Performance

Each country profile presents the most recent data available on a range of indicators relating to the well-being of women and children. Each country profile page is composed of data from multiple sources, depending on the indicator domain. For example, child mortality rates come from the most recent data produced by the UNICEF-led Inter-agency Group for Child Mortality Estimation (IGME).

SDG indicators related to children

The 2030 Agenda includes 17 Global Goals addressing the social, economic and environmental dimensions of sustainable development. Attached to the Goals are 169 concrete targets measured by 232 specific indicators.

To map and monitor how ambitious and realistic countries’ targets are, UNICEF has created quantifiable country-level benchmarks for child-related indicators for which data are available to measure and monitor child rights on a common scale.

Below is a snapshot of the country’s performance against the 45 child-related SDG indicators, grouping results into five areas of child well-being to provide an overall assessment of how children are doing. Countries are assessed using global and national targets. The analysis provides valuable insights into both historical progress—recognizing the results delivered by countries in the recent past—and how much additional effort may be needed to achieve the child-related SDG targets. This approach provides a framework for assessing ambition as well as the scale of action needed to achieve it.