So many inventions for us to benefit us the life, they enchant us. So many marvels that privatize until our souls. So many promises that atrophy us the spaces and our steps. No longer there is nobody what gets (did they forget?) of inventing the love?
After one more dizzy day, the noisy night approaches. The tired eyes close rested in the agitated silence of the lost love.
The publicity that besieges us to every moment shows us the paradise, the announcement, the climax of the finally return of the Lord. And which is the day of the redemption, of the filiation of our love?
The stairways of our lives are solemnly left. The promised stairway for the kingdom of the sky also. It remains us the stairway of the love. But, who will her builder be?
We fled to and fro, in the constant it seeks of the peacefulness that we desired, but we didn't find. In the reality we escaped from the love that we transformed, monstrous. Fugitives of the despair, of the buried love.
And it rained intensely, as usually. Two wet passionate youths took refuge in a homelike tree. And the rain didn't stop, it increased, it seemed other flood that approached. And them strange in the passion, rapturous. A flood of unequaled love if it instituted, he promised.
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário