terça-feira, 1 de dezembro de 2009

Mágoas...

Mágoas que florescem em um campo de desolação. Flores sem cheiro, sem néctar, sem pólem... Flores amargas. Flores que nunca murcham dentro de mim. Plantadas ha tanto tempo. Tão difíceis de arrancar. Mágoas que são cuidadas e cultivadas todos os dias, formando um belo e triste jardim.
Mágoas de sangue brotaram as vermelhas. Das amarelas brotaram as mágoas do que se foi. A azuis surgiram das mágoas de profundas tristezas. Mágoas de amor brotaram as rosas. E por fim as brancas, de mágoas que nunca me trarão a paz. Um dia colherei essas flores e farei um lindo buquê para lhe dar.




Bruises that bloom on a desolation field. Flowers with no smell, no nectar, no pollen... bitter flowers. Flowers that will never fade inside me. Planted so long ago. So hard to took off. Bruises that are caressed and cultivated every day, making a beautiful and sad garden.
Bruises of blood blooming the reds. From the yellows blooming the bruises of what had gone. The blue giving the deep sad bruises. Bruises of love blooming the roses. And at least the whites, from the bruises that will never leave me in peace. One day I'll collect those flowers to give you a beautiful bouquet of them.

Um comentário:

  1. Bruises go like this, blue, then purple, the brown, then yellow. Like a lake drying up. Flowers with no pollen are flowers that cannot fulfill their role unless they are members of a species with both male and female flowers. How sad.

    ResponderExcluir

Locations of visitors to this page
Côcos pelo Mundo