Image from the Red
*
There are shadows shrink from the midday sun,
spectra
forgotten who dig the bowels
seeking heart.
Sometimes, I'm happy with her memory and sometimes
, drove them off with wine or garment
lips
the veil that covers them.
Sometimes ...
voices are cast between lullabies and blame that slip
and burst into the soul without permission.
And sometimes ... they do not come
and looking at ruins of the past
on those nights that I'm blind without knowing myself darkness.
Come, come to me, shadows come,
showing the life of a
yesterday so close and so distant. _____._____
Ramos Carlos Serra
