A little collage

26 abril, 2009

For two different people, by two different reasons.

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April is the cruellest mont, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain

She loves me…she loves me not.
I tear my hands, scatter the broken fingers…loves me not
As we scatter the random riddling heads of daisies
Tumbling through summer.

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow.
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy Earth
Swung blindly and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.


Self-induced caffeine quixotesque delirium

25 janeiro, 2009

Is there a word for going to you traditional place,
order your favorite dish,
receive a different one
and like it better?

Is there a word for leaving all that you have behind
for a journey with a stranger,
which ends up being a scam?

Is there a word for the situation where
you are sure that everything will go wrong,
but everything happens in the opposite way,
although you don’t notice it?

Is there a word for being stalked three hours
by someone who ends up being a childhood friend?

Is there a word for the feeling of having nostalgia
of a past love and searching for it every day,
until discovering that it didn’t exist?

Is there a word for caring,
worrying for a person,
doing everything while
thinking about this person,
during all your life,
without ever imagining that could be
alternatives,
while this isn’t reciprocal?

Love.


Homenagem à Sandman, pela inspiração.
Ódio ao WordPress.com, por matar a formatação.


Sonnet.

24 janeiro, 2009

Any sense of precision
lost between the days
lost within the life
couldn’t be important, no.

Why would you have a vision?
Why see through the maze?
You just need a lie
and faith to follow the flow.

One day, we’ll understand
everything but it will
be only for one day.

After this, no memories
will exist, nothing more.
Or that was the meaning?