KindS of Blue...: janeiro 2009

sábado, 31 de janeiro de 2009

Noturno I



Meu cálice está cheio
e transborda o néctar da Lua.
Por curtos goles, bebo e sorvo
prazerosamente, o vento da noite.

Inundo meus pulmões com teu embebido
lenço melódico - doces cordas canalhas!
Sirenes me entopem os nervos e 
não quero mais cantar.

Quero silêncio. O silêncio atrevido da paz
de uma sombra dentre tantas outras.

A Lua escolhe quais delas desenhar?


To end a story (Pegasus)...



After so many wars,

he stood with her on the ledge of a hill.

She sat softly on a broken dorian type column.
Crossed her legs gently.
Under the mask, a face unseen, tired but warm.

He felt her kindness, her strongness by the moment
they met, more than 10 years ago.
Couldn't believe they have gone so many challenges...

But now, they've reached the edge.
The ground of the dream,
and living in peace.

Talking with hope, he spoked about gratefulness
with her patience, friendship for so much time.

But he still couldn't live without seeing one more thing...

They said a promise, "Do Cvidanja",
and it wasn't a goodbye...

Alone was his heart, but happy.

And, by a smile,
He waved her a kiss over that mask, warm face:

"The only thing I will miss
is to have never seen your face, Marin!"

A wind of bliss has blown,
her hands danced in the air, still sitting
on the white column...

and she took of her mask...

Her face hided a calm beauty,
like a french woman - calm white face,
supported by a spiked chin...

That was suddenly covered
by her blurred eyes, with tears of joy,
and a smile of "thank you".

The eagle warrior, Marin,
faded with the gentle wind
in sparkles of light, pure cosmo energy.
She turned brightly into an eagle,
the free bird of mighty wings.

And she's gone with a whistle,
flying away to infinity,
to the protection stars,
along with his solitude.


"We'll meet soon, my dear friend.
Do Cvidanja."

segunda-feira, 19 de janeiro de 2009

Conto de fardas

As unhas roídas
viraram serragem
na boca de um
empalhado sapo

que antes fora
um belo príncipe

que, de tão ansioso
por casar com sua amada,

quarta-feira, 7 de janeiro de 2009

Violinos

Por quê só os violinos
conseguem arrancar tudo da gente?

Qual mistério envolve seus movimentos modais,
sua presença imponente nos acordes mais simples?

Movimentam-se em quartas, tercinas, frígios,
cromáticas, menores melódicas,
criticando a paz do coração camponês,
realçando a nobreza fodida do europeu burguês,

Voz de violino não é voz de poeta romântico
que do mar tira mel e das rimas desenha o céu.
Violino nasce da madeira cortada, ferida,
nasceu pra chorar!