25

A poesia enrola-se nos dedos, e aperta-nos a garganta.

21 Abril 2008

Alone in the dark

Waves of dim light are flickering on the ceiling above me, and the crackling sounds of the fire beside me are warning me “We’ll soon be out”. As my body is still not warm enough to face the night, I decide to give the flames another boost before letting them die completely, slowly before my eyes. Having only a miniscule source of light, I touch my surroundings, palm of hand blindingly stretched ahead until I find the basket with delight, grab a couple of logs, and throw them in the hot nest, watching it catch on fire almost immediately causing my cheeks to burst with redness.
All is dark, completely dark around me, except for that ball of fire that floods me. Fire tends to bring back memories of times past; times that not even I lived. Way before my time of being. But still it does. It flickers those memories into people’s minds even though they are not always aware of it. Primitive warming memories of days that may have seem longer than the present ones - perhaps they really were. Now the flames have slowered their dance again, subsiding every second until disappearing altogether, only leaving orange colored coals whispering to each other “We have to go”. I curl up into a ball, coiling myself in me [If only I had some chestnuts], and wishing there was someone, anyone!, beside me to share old thoughts. Darkness falls down on me, covering me with its warm ebony blanket, and, smiling, eyes shutting, I drift off into my world carrying a handfull of ashes, ready to paint.

24

Séria é a cor
com que vestes o rosto
dia após dia
após o sol posto

23

Salpico-me de dor.
E as marcas desses pingos são pequenos rasgos por onde a luz insiste em entrar à pressa. Rejuvenesce-nos.