As palavras soltas de hoje falam sobre guarda-chuvas. O meu guarda-chuva tem um desenho peculiar. Tem linhas com cores indefinidas e desenhos abstractos. Tem uns soldados de Londres pintados à mão para afastar qualquer gatuno ou ladrão que me tente importunar. Pelo meio, a intervalar, tem umas pintas e riscas que deixam qualquer um confuso. Tem uns autocarros, estilo inglês, que lhe dão um ar pitoresco. Aliás, os autocarros tornam-nos velozes. A mim e ao guarda-chuva. E, quando as gotas de chuva caem e tocam-lhe, o meu guarda-chuva entoa uma melodia nunca antes ouvida. Ecoa uma melodia que me acompanha durante o caminho chuvoso e tempestuoso trazendo memórias de dias iluminados pela luz solar. Aquece o meu coração. Faz-me esquecer o inverno que me tenta absorver. Gosto de ti, chuva. Dizes-me coisas ao ouvido que ninguém entende. Contas-me histórias que só nós percebemos. Libertas sonhos porque lavas a minha alma. O meu guarda-chuva já não me guarda mais. Deixo que as tuas gotas caiam sobre o meu rosto pálido e gelado. Cantas frases que a minha boca não aprende e muito menos apreende. Murmuras. Deixas vestígios de palavras balbuciadas pelos caminhos desolados que vou percorrendo. Arrepio. Talvez um dia entenda, chuva, o mistério que as tuas gotas ostentam. Chove. Não se ouve mais do que silêncio. Porque as pessoas procuram abrigo. Porque a chuva não faz ruído que não seja silêncio. Sussurras. Tão calma é a chuva que nem parece chuva. Tão calma é a chuva que não parece vinda das nuvens. Não és chuva, és sussurrar. Não paira vento. Cais, chuva, como criança abandonada. Melancolia nos meus pensamentos. Memória estranha de outrora. Memória esquecida que continua presente. Pelo menos tenho o meu guarda-chuva. Bem, mas estas já são outras palavras soltas. Ana Reis
Today my words talk about umbrellas. My umbrella has a peculiar design. It has lines with undefined colors. It's hand-painted It has London soldiers to ward off any thieves who ever tried to pester me. In the middle, between all the lines, it has spots and stripesthat can make anyone confuse. It has English buses that make it look picturesque. In fact, buses make us fast. Me and the umbrella. And when the raindrops fall and touch it, my umbrella chants a melody never heard before. Echoes a melody that I can listen during the rainy and stormy road bringing me memories of illuminated sunny days. It warms my heart. It makes me forget the winter that tempts to absorb me. I like you, rain. You tell me things in my ear that nobody understands. You tell me stories that only we realize their meaning. You release dreams because you wash my soul. My umbrella is no longer holding me. I let your drops fall on my pale and cold face. You sing sentences that my mouth can't learn, that my mouth can't apprehend. Whisper. You leave traces of stammered words along the desolate paths that I go through. Shiver. Perhaps one day I'll understand, rain, the mystery that your drops bear. It's raining. All we can hear is silence. Because people seek for shelter. Because the rain makes no noise but silence. Whisper. And the rain is so calm that it doesn't seem like rain. The rain is so calm that it doesn't seem to come from the clouds. You aren't rain, you are whispering. There is no wind. And rain, you fall like an abandoned child. Melancholy in my thoughts. Strange memory of yesteryear. Forgotten memory that remains so present. At least I got my umbrella. Well, but these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
Today my words talk about umbrellas. My umbrella has a peculiar design. It has lines with undefined colors. It's hand-painted It has London soldiers to ward off any thieves who ever tried to pester me. In the middle, between all the lines, it has spots and stripesthat can make anyone confuse. It has English buses that make it look picturesque. In fact, buses make us fast. Me and the umbrella. And when the raindrops fall and touch it, my umbrella chants a melody never heard before. Echoes a melody that I can listen during the rainy and stormy road bringing me memories of illuminated sunny days. It warms my heart. It makes me forget the winter that tempts to absorb me. I like you, rain. You tell me things in my ear that nobody understands. You tell me stories that only we realize their meaning. You release dreams because you wash my soul. My umbrella is no longer holding me. I let your drops fall on my pale and cold face. You sing sentences that my mouth can't learn, that my mouth can't apprehend. Whisper. You leave traces of stammered words along the desolate paths that I go through. Shiver. Perhaps one day I'll understand, rain, the mystery that your drops bear. It's raining. All we can hear is silence. Because people seek for shelter. Because the rain makes no noise but silence. Whisper. And the rain is so calm that it doesn't seem like rain. The rain is so calm that it doesn't seem to come from the clouds. You aren't rain, you are whispering. There is no wind. And rain, you fall like an abandoned child. Melancholy in my thoughts. Strange memory of yesteryear. Forgotten memory that remains so present. At least I got my umbrella. Well, but these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
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