With your life like blotting paper,
regurgitant of experience, acceptance,
as the setting sun, that the past is showing you away shoulders.
building, ... the sand filter through your fingers almost completely
... you know that your palms, now hold the vacuum.
faded is the footage ... ... ...
firm is turning that swirled in the past.
You know that the twilight melts color,
spreading in the water that the sun kisses,
and instead, we deluded us into the dock,
was waiting to see, for her fall,
a blaze of crimson foam,
and then, still an open wound and bleeding.
But the sea gently blushes slightly, shyly,
and no wind, and no flights,
discreet is the vision in its sublime beauty.
In you is the excitement of the day that
languid off.
I kneel, I bow to your wisdom to look
vague,
to your wrinkles.
Should not I?
but the glare of the end of the day can be done without fear
free
comments to an original act, so
is veiled, eyes curious, by the dim light of early evening
(could be the act of bending to pick up a pebble
rare or else
that day the sand hides his brilliance).
I feel a subtle thought that
passing through the eye of a needle
not to let it go completely, you
the uttermost hanger,
his hands trembling.
seems to be the common thread to the fates. I
leaf already fragile, I count the days,
no longer sure of my fate, with a shudder ...
urgent heart,
but without a cry of rebellion ...
and, a few at the top rung, however, to
a short distance,
wait ... you mean the dizzying
you who are not worth some more, I
I step on your same path, only a short distance
... In me brooding, overbearing,
force drawing from my memory unlivable,
an impossible desire to escape.
Just to put a white image
peace between demons and gods of memory.
Franca
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