It is a quarter to ten o'clock
Quickly the men ran away of their ought
As a blob upon the flows
My hands running through the glows
Moonlight
Throughout my bloody veins on the roll
I sold your blood when I let it my neck onto the sword
And I had filled up the atmosphere with flowers and gardens
I have grown on the path
I escaped from the darkness and the blow
Thus, within my lack, therefore I was pushed back by your soul
The yellow roses were floating all over our bluish river
There was not the goat
There was not any boat.
Ain't you listening to the birds on the road?
They rang the trustful serenade
They sang the beauty of the sadness
Out and from the inner of our bosom
We might have been sinners
Hearing the sound of the bells
The clatter clarifies the odd poetries
Poems I should have had in hands
Those ones I made it to you
Not in vain
All my love is claiming
Let us ride the life within her optimistic ways.
Brás Cubas.
Marc Chagall.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário