As palavras soltas de hoje correm as páginas da vida. Não as da vida já vivida, mas as da vida por viver. E continuam a correr. Porque o tempo também corre. Correcção: o tempo voa! E as minhas palavras já são voadoras por elas próprias. Nunca lhes foi preciso ensinar a voar. Elas, simplesmente, já nasceram a sabê-lo. Quando eu envelhecer e todo o meu ser se tornar velho e triste e o alvorecer já não despertar o mesmo sorriso da minha boca, espero ter-te do meu lado. E os meus olhos que já teimam em fechar-se sozinhos dão-me sinais do meu natural murchar jamais deixarão de olhar-te. Têm sede de te ver. A velhice vem sem anunciar. Surge sem avisar. Vai dando sinais. Uns melhores, outros piores. Vai dando sinais. E tão velhos ficamos como árvores no outono. Já não precisamos dos olhos bem abertos porque já sabemos de cor a vida. E isso nem sempre é mau. Os ouvidos podem não ser os mesmos. Mas os sons já estão mais do que entranhados na nossa mente. Não é preciso ouvir para saber o que estamos a ouvir. As linhas que nos marcam o rosto não são mais do que linhas bem vincadas, denunciando cicatrizes de guerra. Uma guerra dura. Com altos e baixos. Às vezes mais baixos do que altos, outras mais altos do que baixos. É a vida. O nosso rosto já não é nosso mas do tempo. O rosto do tempo. Deixamos de ser nós. Talvez um pouco. E passamos a ser fantasmas de tudo. E a verdade é que só quero que continuemos a olhar um para o outro e a vermo-nos como no dia em que nos conhecemos. Assim a velhice custará bem menos. Bem, mas estas já são outras palavras soltas. Ana Reis
Today my words are running at the pages of life. But they aren't running at the pages of the life already lived, but of the life that will come. And they still running. An so time does. Correction: time flies! And my words are already flying by themselves. I never had to teach them how to fly. They simply were born already knowing it. When I grow older and my whole being become old and sad and no longer my awakening makes me smile as I used to, I hope I have you on my side. And my eyes already insist on close it's life giving me signs of my natural wither, never cease to look to you. They will always be thirst of seeing you. Old age comes without announce. Comes without warning. It only gives us signs. Some better, some worse. And so we get older as trees in autumn. We no longer need the eyes open because we already know how life is. And that's not always bad. And we don's listen as we used to. But the sounds are already more than ingrained in our minds. They are a part of our lifes. There's no need to listen to know what we are hearing. The lines on our face are nothing more than well-creased lines, denouncing war scars. A hard war. With ups and downs. Sometimes more ups than downs, other more downs than ups. That's life. Our face is no longer ours but it's from time. Time's face. And we stop being us. Maybe a little. And we become ghosts of everything. And the truth is that I just want us to continue looking at each other and see ourselves as the day we met. Thus old age will cost much less. Well, these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
Today my words are running at the pages of life. But they aren't running at the pages of the life already lived, but of the life that will come. And they still running. An so time does. Correction: time flies! And my words are already flying by themselves. I never had to teach them how to fly. They simply were born already knowing it. When I grow older and my whole being become old and sad and no longer my awakening makes me smile as I used to, I hope I have you on my side. And my eyes already insist on close it's life giving me signs of my natural wither, never cease to look to you. They will always be thirst of seeing you. Old age comes without announce. Comes without warning. It only gives us signs. Some better, some worse. And so we get older as trees in autumn. We no longer need the eyes open because we already know how life is. And that's not always bad. And we don's listen as we used to. But the sounds are already more than ingrained in our minds. They are a part of our lifes. There's no need to listen to know what we are hearing. The lines on our face are nothing more than well-creased lines, denouncing war scars. A hard war. With ups and downs. Sometimes more ups than downs, other more downs than ups. That's life. Our face is no longer ours but it's from time. Time's face. And we stop being us. Maybe a little. And we become ghosts of everything. And the truth is that I just want us to continue looking at each other and see ourselves as the day we met. Thus old age will cost much less. Well, these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
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