While she was sleeping, not always it was veiling the sleep. He knew whenever it was still sleeping while it was going through each one of the rooms left where the only breeze, when I am lifting to breathing, only could come from his measured breathing. I believe that only I would manage to see the subtle waviness of the old curtains. The narrow windows that were accompanying the rooms arranged around the only made uneven cloister were the only figures to accompany me in the spiral of our solitude. When it was leaving it, in the room of the top, after feeling that his eyes were abating after the storm of some nightmare, it was going out for a small balcony on the inner enclosure and was going down the first turn of the spiral - the only place where it was managing to look at the sky and, where, for times, it was feeling the wind and the rain that was dripping even to the bottom, accompanying my distance even to the entry of the first room, near the great entrance door, where one was draining for an orifice. For times, it was leaning the ear to the small ostiole and her breathing seemed to hear again, knowing well that it could not be, because if the water was disappearing around there, it was not going, certainly, towards the highest room. But the rhythm seemed the same thing. Regular soldier, like a tired chest and without hope. Then, it was raising again for the rooms that were even succeeded in corridor, to the útima, in the top. It was sliding then for his side and seemed that it had never known it otherwise. He wanted that one was facing me, I was looking at each other in the eyes and was telling to myself the dream that had had while I had got up of the bed. But about his dreams only he was talking to me through the skin that was shuddering against my cold belly and for the immediate suspension of his breathing, like if it was in panic. Moving away, again it was seeming to the breathing to retake his circular way.
It was in a day that again was getting ready to place myself to his side, observing the movements ondulatórios under his shut eyes, in which I touched it and which I felt the body to be withdrawn of coldness, that the pain obliged me going out, it was not going to wake it and to disturb with the convulsions that were obliging me twisting the body in all the directions. Of the balcony on the inner patio only he was managing to see the clouds, guessing rain, vaguely, very vaguely, illuminated by aurora. Tracking for the ground, it was feeling my body to split against the irregularidades from the stone of the ground. So I dragged myself even to the bottom of the black mansion, where, for a gap of the great door, I managed to see the abject remains of my body still hanging, like standards torn to pieces on the dismembered body of a soldier. Attacked by a fever insuspeitada, to which it was seeming me to take care of the inflamed veins, I raised the rooms again, in the silent fury with which it was starting, which could, each piece of rotten meat that was insisting in growing insidiosamente around a ball of thread of anguish and growing heat. The walls were stained of dark blood, and the ground, behind me, it was spreading a triumphal, scarlet stair carpet out. When I arrived next to her, it was exhausted, dirty, draining mistletoe and decay. The door of the balcony was slamming with the wind and was letting in water in sprinkles. I left and let the water drip for me, waiting to be undone, diluted, up to disappearing for the orifice in the bottom of the cloister in spiral.
When it stopped raining, already the sun had been born. I got up, weakly, me decided not going down the wet spiral. I altered the usual distance and entered in the camera where she was continuing his sleep of decades. I kneeled down to his side and touched him in the face. It was not withdrawn. Since there is dug skin from his skin. It was not a foreign body. I kissed it. It opened the eyes, uncovered, dark, but brilliant, obscured by the light that it hampers through the door of the balcony. It smiled, for short moments, being startled soon following. " The dragon? ", it asked, while it was handed to my arms and was prepared to stand up. " I killed it ", he said, pointing to the bloody scales that were covering the way with rushes through the rooms.
E o resultado foi que escrevo como... bem, já disse. Claro que não acredito nisto.
Até porque, depois, usei outro texto e deu-me isto... Vá, eu até gosto do "E Tudo o Vento Levou..."
Mas, não satisfeito, ainda fui buscar este texto aqui (onde se fala de religião e de arte) e o estúpido do programa, o que é que me foi dizer?
Snif, snif... afinal não escrevo como William Shakespeare... Acho que não escrevo como coisíssima nenhuma. Na melhor das hipóteses, sou original. Ou uma manta de retalhos.
. poesia i
. hip hop
. Madame K