sexta-feira, 27 de julho de 2012


From her world he only knew of the weight carried on her shoulders, framed in the plasticity of the word from which she seized the days. Destiny was turning itself in an accomplice and the inner will to draw her body, loosing himself in the sweet curve of her eyes, a in short pause, realizing in a flash of childhood memories of explicit arithmetic where Mrs. Ruth often divided baskets of oranges, collected kings of Portugal in the history and geography book or in the manifest fear of heights which prevented him from crossing bridges, and the best of all happened in between moments, life squinting and sliding while death was distracted, and time was so old and scattered like the sailboats to India and to win the world was to look upwards, measuring the distance in dreams and smiles, feeling her skin scenting broom and heather in the late hours of the day,  surrendering himself to that look, baring her soul and desiring to find out if love lived far beyond that bridge torn on the margins of Neruda. 

In a moment, as intense as time, just long enough to read the invitation to cross the bridge into the depth look of her eyes, and him, with an eager and innocent smile, indicating even without realizing, that more than a halfway was already crossed ...