Myths, Dreams and Poetry. port/eng
it is a hymn as much as it is an obsession
- but isn't it holy?
-
Vim d'uma morosa manhã de abril, cresci como coruja cantante na copa do pau-brasil, tornei-me como bruma e desfiz-me...
weaving dreams from silk strings, as soft as the dew of an early morning weaving flowers into garlands and unspoken poetry of minds so far away.
the complete dreaminess of the fable-silk, protects the shell of this fragile, languid body, whose wings have fallen but the soul is water crystalline.
with pearls my sepulture will be adorned, but no name nor date only pearls of black seas and tears of starlight, will prove my descent way into the underlife of unforgotten gods.
to wander in hollowed death pouring from the sky, falling as if endlessly, until meeting reincarnation, again on my lips.
to become holier each time my feet sinks in, in this misty evening, heavy with slumber, until awake again, still on my tomb - as a growing ivy, as a dried stream, waiting for a sign of life beyond the flowering.
ii.
on winter's eve, the night became silent, the trees didn't dare to move, but the birds sang, softly.
spring's corpse faded, petal my petal, carried away by the dusk wind, the last perishing flower turned itself into melody - becoming the annunciation of winter's return, and the death of lady spring.
and when the first snowflake fell on the lurid face of a newborn fawn, i woke from slumber and was taken home, by the gentle hands of a winter storm. and weaved myself again, another dream to dream, scaping the unspeakable wound of far too longing.
only now i carry the sentiment of belonging deep within the womb and haunted by the sweetness of reclamation, i become the silent bride of winter, kissed beyond the tomb.
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