quinta-feira, 22 de março de 2012

For a maiden's heart

A maiden lost in not only heart but mind,
A maiden that something has lost and that something needs to find.

Truth be written here,
Thou doth has eyes to see and ears to ear,
Ear thus my humble plea and read this story,
Of this fair maiden whose heart came torn
And whose soul would be sworn to be worn
Until it became a pale ghost.

As Winter came nigh
And day became night,
Thus the maiden mindlessly roamed the woods,
Following her shadow through trees and roots,
Smiling innocently as the moon shone over her
And the air became damp and darkness heavier.

Shadow follows shadow and merges
Out of the darkness a figure surges,
Whispers it words that only the wind can ear
Giving the maiden a chill no one wants to feel,
Walking slowly as hand reaches for hair
That runs away from his grasp, as desperate as fair.

The clouds slowly cover the moon
And the wolves howl by the moor,
Their souls brave and their fears bind and stale,
Towards the maiden they run to save her from bane,
Moving with haste in her direction
Commanded by a mind that thinks only of her salvation.

A forest pitch black is now stained with the colour of life,
All that in darkness dwells has seen failed all of its strife.
Came with the winds, the wolves and snakes bite the figures limbs
And the maiden's heart calms and her revolving mind finally stills.
Back to shadows the figure goes, forming pools of blood in its goodbye,
At last all is calm and the maiden sighs, a low note starts a cry, the maiden heart's shy.

A maiden lost in the woods accompanied by wolves and snakes, her heart's still,
A man's mind at ease for all that was lost has been found, finally his heart can be revealed.

sexta-feira, 16 de março de 2012

Um dia diferente dos outros

Já vi loucuras mais declaradas passarem à minha frente e assumirem-se dignas de atenção de outros sem qualquer justificação. Todas juntas constituem os momentos mais notórios da minha vida. Vida triste, não é verdade? É capaz mas quem me conhece sabe que pouco me interessam as histórias de dor e amor. Talvez por isso esteja tão disposto a largar as minhas memórias e formar novas. Deixo apenas os erros. Lembro-me deles ocasionalmente, deixam-me envergonhado e furioso comigo próprio. Tenho a certeza que se tivesse um clone que me espancaria quase até à morte. Enraivecido, louco, ignorante, que será de ti? - pergunta-me a consciência. Não sei mas a vida continua.