Dou-te o meu beijo,
Dás-me fome, dás-me peste negra,
Mascas-me a lua,
E arruinas-me a noite aberta
Qual cirugia
Cujo ponto é feito a linha de chumbo
P'ra me matares com veneno lento.
Estripas estrelas e arremessas os seus restos ao Mundo,
Até sobrarem pedras, fogo e vento.
Meu doce pó,
Minha canção de caos e entropia,
Meu astro negro
Que cintila ao tom da ironia.
Ai que me gozas de alto e longe nesse gesto maldito!
Que me enrijeces o âmago soturno.
Faz-me sentir que sou um louco animal erudito
A ruminar nos anéis de Saturno.
domingo, 4 de setembro de 2011
segunda-feira, 11 de julho de 2011
Siege
Through hidden layers and blackened tongues storming at the silver ringed gates...
You just had to do it.
Ye, whose words spat the most delicate weavings, masterfully poured into my sound pavillion,
Songs of "do" and "don't" in glistening harmony, and through that web of perfect chants... Prosperity at it's best, traded for a lick at the Devil's heart.
You really had to do it.
Does my tongue evoke such monsters? Or do the monsters secretly overcome our holy Kingdom? Does night fall all that easily for the minds of faithless men, lulled by the sweet drops of satin debochery as the unwary fisherman is wooed by the Siren's voice? Clouded MY voice, temptation lurks in walls of glistening oozing marble, stripped of it's glorious banners.
So here I stand and ponder the whys of you doing it, considering the stormed holy Kingdom being ruled by fiends in my absence and the choices there taken, my mind ravaged by the thought that maybe, in a faint dumbstruck theory, I should just let Hell breach my walls and take whatever they may... And maybe I am not fit to rule in war.
Alas disappointment is a bitch.
And you really had to do it...
You just had to do it.
Ye, whose words spat the most delicate weavings, masterfully poured into my sound pavillion,
Songs of "do" and "don't" in glistening harmony, and through that web of perfect chants... Prosperity at it's best, traded for a lick at the Devil's heart.
You really had to do it.
Does my tongue evoke such monsters? Or do the monsters secretly overcome our holy Kingdom? Does night fall all that easily for the minds of faithless men, lulled by the sweet drops of satin debochery as the unwary fisherman is wooed by the Siren's voice? Clouded MY voice, temptation lurks in walls of glistening oozing marble, stripped of it's glorious banners.
So here I stand and ponder the whys of you doing it, considering the stormed holy Kingdom being ruled by fiends in my absence and the choices there taken, my mind ravaged by the thought that maybe, in a faint dumbstruck theory, I should just let Hell breach my walls and take whatever they may... And maybe I am not fit to rule in war.
Alas disappointment is a bitch.
And you really had to do it...
domingo, 26 de junho de 2011
Às cinco na Igreja
Uiva um sonho por entre as chaminés.
Abraçado pela sua doce Umbra ele deambula num gemido constante, impróprio a si próprio num modo sempre tão apropriado. A populaça mexe-se sob os seus pés, mas nenhum naco do rebanho dá por si: é um fantasma, uma sombra, um espectro penado e mesmo assim, quão bem reluz a sua pele ao doce luar que nunca o bafeja.
E que importa que seja apenas o próprio a admirar-se?! Quão bem pulsam os frenéticos rios esverdeados sob a sua pele fantasiada, ardentes em glória dormente, mortos apetrechos para se enganar a si e a si somente. Quão maquiavélico é o reflexo do árgon incandescente nos seus olhos indiferentes, quão caótico o flutuar de um cabelo fora do seu caminho. E que ego narcísico inunda a criatura!
Mas o repente fumado sublima o momento. O segundo uivo reverbera pelo betão feio e estuque do jardim urbano, cada vez mais perto, num gorgolejar cacofónico de glória e ira que estremecem o estribo do sonhador. E ao olhar para baixo... Será possível? Um aglomerado agoniado de negro escuro fumado olha para si, quiçá pasmado. Mas será para si? Não para a lua, como todos os seres de Nix, ou talvez ao mudo sino que há tanto se reduz a uma cassete rouca e obsoleta?
O lobo uivou mais uma vez. Inconfundível reconhecimento. Um grotesco monstro familar, quão diferente da sua pele de trâmitos mundanos, que manifestação tão soturna em comparação com o ego encarnado e, no entanto, ambos figuras tão distintas e fiéis a si próprios como poderiam algum dia ser.
"Conforme combinado." rosnou a difusa silhueta do lobisomem, pulando para junto do pálido fantasma expectante que com um cordial acenar se sentou ao seu lado e retorquiu, quais cavalheiros num café da moda. "Às cinco na Igreja."
Abraçado pela sua doce Umbra ele deambula num gemido constante, impróprio a si próprio num modo sempre tão apropriado. A populaça mexe-se sob os seus pés, mas nenhum naco do rebanho dá por si: é um fantasma, uma sombra, um espectro penado e mesmo assim, quão bem reluz a sua pele ao doce luar que nunca o bafeja.
E que importa que seja apenas o próprio a admirar-se?! Quão bem pulsam os frenéticos rios esverdeados sob a sua pele fantasiada, ardentes em glória dormente, mortos apetrechos para se enganar a si e a si somente. Quão maquiavélico é o reflexo do árgon incandescente nos seus olhos indiferentes, quão caótico o flutuar de um cabelo fora do seu caminho. E que ego narcísico inunda a criatura!
Mas o repente fumado sublima o momento. O segundo uivo reverbera pelo betão feio e estuque do jardim urbano, cada vez mais perto, num gorgolejar cacofónico de glória e ira que estremecem o estribo do sonhador. E ao olhar para baixo... Será possível? Um aglomerado agoniado de negro escuro fumado olha para si, quiçá pasmado. Mas será para si? Não para a lua, como todos os seres de Nix, ou talvez ao mudo sino que há tanto se reduz a uma cassete rouca e obsoleta?
O lobo uivou mais uma vez. Inconfundível reconhecimento. Um grotesco monstro familar, quão diferente da sua pele de trâmitos mundanos, que manifestação tão soturna em comparação com o ego encarnado e, no entanto, ambos figuras tão distintas e fiéis a si próprios como poderiam algum dia ser.
"Conforme combinado." rosnou a difusa silhueta do lobisomem, pulando para junto do pálido fantasma expectante que com um cordial acenar se sentou ao seu lado e retorquiu, quais cavalheiros num café da moda. "Às cinco na Igreja."
sábado, 26 de fevereiro de 2011
Red Star
Once upon our own time,
There was a bright red star.
No one knew from what place,
Except it's from afar.
It seemed not to shine high,
It shone gloom, actually,
No one knew as to why,
What would cause it to be.
Could it lack the right skill?
Some stars shine expertise!
But this star had it still,
So it could shine with ease!
Could it be out of shame?
There'd be no reason why.
The red star was unique,
No excuse to be shy!
Could it feel out of place?
Ah, but all of them do,
So it sounds quite baroque
To consider that too.
Could this star feel alone?
Why would it feel that way?
Green, blue, white stars shine close,
With things friendly to say.
Could this star be too sad?
I just hope that it's not.
Red stars shine in a way
That the others cannot.
There was a bright red star.
No one knew from what place,
Except it's from afar.
It seemed not to shine high,
It shone gloom, actually,
No one knew as to why,
What would cause it to be.
Could it lack the right skill?
Some stars shine expertise!
But this star had it still,
So it could shine with ease!
Could it be out of shame?
There'd be no reason why.
The red star was unique,
No excuse to be shy!
Could it feel out of place?
Ah, but all of them do,
So it sounds quite baroque
To consider that too.
Could this star feel alone?
Why would it feel that way?
Green, blue, white stars shine close,
With things friendly to say.
Could this star be too sad?
I just hope that it's not.
Red stars shine in a way
That the others cannot.
quinta-feira, 27 de janeiro de 2011
Motto against Drama
I turned to you with the frown most bleak.
Thoughts unspoken clutched my soul,
Swelled up, swallowed me whole.
As out of your bed I rolled
I opened my mouth to speak:
"There are things I never said,
Thoughts, ideas, memories,
Things I see that no one sees,
Things I can't show you, but please,
Bear them as they are played.
I can't speak them for they'd be lies,
Mortal wounds painted in gray.
In my head they seem OK,
But in made-up words I just can't say.
Thoughts are things I can't disguise.
Special soul which you may be,
Too much may be stored ahead,
We walked paths which no one led,
From no book this can be red,
I don't know if you can truly know me."
Snatching me as I got away,
You stood up in front of the window,
In a curtain background of bordeaux,
Smiled a smile that seemed to grow,
Mesmerized me just to say:
"Mortal wounds hurt more than lies.
Things unsaid are superficial,
Things forgotten artificial.
Things superfluous are never special
As long as they don't end up in goodbyes."
Thoughts unspoken clutched my soul,
Swelled up, swallowed me whole.
As out of your bed I rolled
I opened my mouth to speak:
"There are things I never said,
Thoughts, ideas, memories,
Things I see that no one sees,
Things I can't show you, but please,
Bear them as they are played.
I can't speak them for they'd be lies,
Mortal wounds painted in gray.
In my head they seem OK,
But in made-up words I just can't say.
Thoughts are things I can't disguise.
Special soul which you may be,
Too much may be stored ahead,
We walked paths which no one led,
From no book this can be red,
I don't know if you can truly know me."
Snatching me as I got away,
You stood up in front of the window,
In a curtain background of bordeaux,
Smiled a smile that seemed to grow,
Mesmerized me just to say:
"Mortal wounds hurt more than lies.
Things unsaid are superficial,
Things forgotten artificial.
Things superfluous are never special
As long as they don't end up in goodbyes."
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)