§ June 22nd, 2024 § Filed under General § Tagged chronic Comments Off on Soil
IN the SOIL the day was gray in the city of the drizzle that, persistent, bathed pedestrian and asphalt. Inside of the car, it waited the signal when something called my attention. It was play in the soil, the wind absence hindered that it flied, then, remained in the soil, wet. She was not high, but attractive, well coming, would give to enjoy a snack or a cinema. In the intention of if protecting of rain, the passengers did not look at for the soil, the umbrella were the attraction. Exactly folded, he was possible to see the value for a few seconds and, I cogitated to go down of the car, to take ownership and to make good use. However, and if was one pegadinha? It was spotted of rose or other substances of origin suspicion? if somebody noticed before? The signal opened, the car sped up, the wheels chiaram in wet asphalt. the ballot remained there, wet, alive money in the soil, visible for one, invisible for others. Until when?
§ February 13th, 2017 § Filed under General § Tagged chronic Comments Off on Epiphany
Of any form, still yesterday it was winter The time flies dissimulating to walk. She is necessary to be of eye in the time, because still yesterday it was winter At any time January can arrive, and with it the happiness. I not taste of the winter If it could would make as the bears, he was waked up all the spring, summer and autumn and slept the winter all He was boy still when I discovered, at an Epiphany moment, who the difference between the winter and the hell is made of a letter only I not taste of the winter, taste of the spring, but happy exactly, of truth, I will only be when January to arrive. The life most is lived when it is lived with simplicity But the simplicity of the life Ah, poor person of us! The simplicity of the life is resulted of an immensely complex and difficult process to obtain The life has that to be lived with a cold in the foot of the belly. Pretty day this that finished to be born. Already it is spring, but, strange thing, still seems to be winter, perhaps either. It is that the spring alone starts one fifteen days after starting in the calendar Pretty day, however, that I have to make with it when has as much other things waiting to be done of urgency? Detesto urgent things Detesto full people of urgencies. Things urgent are bark of poetry, because poetry is thing that if makes divagando to devagar, without haste, without commitment with the clock, commitment I obtain exactly Poet who if deprives not yet is poet. So that it serves me one new day of spring – what still is looked like winter – when the soul is full of these urgencies, schedules, old agendas and wounds? When the soul is old everything more is old Who league for a flower that unclasps, when the hour to leave for the work already passed of the hour? I prefer the nights of spring the light fosca of these vernal days that still seem days of winter But the night for me only starts later midnight.
