Yo Friends! I am again, and with one of my seasons I had not written (perhaps because of the blockage that makes it so much easier to talk about the misfortune of melancholy that happiness, or that autumn is more comfortable to describe the summer ... or spring). I intend to participate in the same poetry contest than in previous years - tenacious in his defeat, the small - and since it seemed that it was my season (Fall) that they had liked best, I told myself, why does not come back with another season?
You tell me what you think?
(@ ux dysjonctés worried: Do not worry, I 'm on a track for my little serious response to the challenge) * * *
I décoiffe fresh flowers - small and discreet fragrances mutinous, blushing here and there to see their ribs purple exhibited by the dew, liquid lens - I leave this jungle proud lungs full of spring.
These stories of "I" am tired. I want to blend into the wet wood of the bench to hear the heavy clouds scraping the sky gray stripped of all their gold.
I want to be alone, far from where this spring repugnant cooing couples already faded away from the flowers of a pink rose to be too delicate, to merit flowers. I want this spring untouched, one that is not in the books, the one who is silent and drops the magnolias on the cool stone of the small shaded courtyard, cradling their dreams of a wet breeze. One whose blade offers the birds a world of silence so they can talk, and agree to be the architects of a cathedral whose pines are still asleep in the nave, whose tears are the windows of the willow, which the whispers of the fountain down, to clear the saliva, is the font.
But this spring is unreal is that of a spoiled little girl.
Elsewhere, he lends his silence the shell that comes to deliver his rage disgusting paper on the walls of a building, right despair rising to the sky. Here, the young rain sprinkles his temerity new sad indifference of a man for his neighbor. There, the song falls into the red throat deaf ear to a fat man, fingers heavy with rings of gold set with inhumanity - the consciousness as light as clouds, windswept, sign it, calmly, of ink as black as its blinders and steaming coffee, a little note, thin shroud of a mass grave screaming.
These stories of "I" am tired. I want to blend into the wet wood of the bench to hear the heavy clouds scraping the sky gray stripped of all their gold.
I want to be alone, far from where this spring repugnant cooing couples already faded away from the flowers of a pink rose to be too delicate, to merit flowers. I want this spring untouched, one that is not in the books, the one who is silent and drops the magnolias on the cool stone of the small shaded courtyard, cradling their dreams of a wet breeze. One whose blade offers the birds a world of silence so they can talk, and agree to be the architects of a cathedral whose pines are still asleep in the nave, whose tears are the windows of the willow, which the whispers of the fountain down, to clear the saliva, is the font.
But this spring is unreal is that of a spoiled little girl.
Elsewhere, he lends his silence the shell that comes to deliver his rage disgusting paper on the walls of a building, right despair rising to the sky. Here, the young rain sprinkles his temerity new sad indifference of a man for his neighbor. There, the song falls into the red throat deaf ear to a fat man, fingers heavy with rings of gold set with inhumanity - the consciousness as light as clouds, windswept, sign it, calmly, of ink as black as its blinders and steaming coffee, a little note, thin shroud of a mass grave screaming.
