As palavras soltas de hoje falam sobre música. E a música faz parte das nossas vidas. Surge envolta em ondas de oceano e em sopros de brisa de mar. Seduz-me. Procuro navegar. E, sobre um dorso brumoso, perco-me e encontro-me. Pobre música que já não sabes quem és. Envelhecida. Não sei porque agradas o meu ouvido e, no entanto, enches de lágrimas os meus olhos. O meu olhar parado no tempo e no espaço. Lembro-me perfeitamente de como costumava ouvir-te. E com ânsia e raiva quero aquele outrora. Não sei se o fui feliz. Derrama-se a música no corpo da palavra. Sofre mutação para poema. Traz bagagem. Traz memórias. O caminho do sangue e do sol e o cume de palavras primorosamente polidas. E a música é imensidão, não coubesse nela o mar e a morte. Bem, mas estas já são outras palavras soltas. Ana Reis
Today my words talk about music. Today music makes part of our lives. It rises wrapped in ocean's waves and in sea's breeze. It seduces me. I try to navigate. And on a misty path I can lose and find myself. Poor music that doesn't know itself anymore. Old. I don't know why you are music to my ears, and at the same time, you fill my eyes with tears. My eyes freezed in space and time. I remember perfectly how I used to listen to you. And with eagerness and anger I want that to come back to me one more time. I don't know if I was happy. The music is falls into the word's body. It suffers mutation to became a poem. It brings luggage. It brings memories. A path of blood and sun that finishes in a mountain of exquisitely polished words. And the music is greater where the sea and death fit in it perfectly. Well, but these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
Today my words talk about music. Today music makes part of our lives. It rises wrapped in ocean's waves and in sea's breeze. It seduces me. I try to navigate. And on a misty path I can lose and find myself. Poor music that doesn't know itself anymore. Old. I don't know why you are music to my ears, and at the same time, you fill my eyes with tears. My eyes freezed in space and time. I remember perfectly how I used to listen to you. And with eagerness and anger I want that to come back to me one more time. I don't know if I was happy. The music is falls into the word's body. It suffers mutation to became a poem. It brings luggage. It brings memories. A path of blood and sun that finishes in a mountain of exquisitely polished words. And the music is greater where the sea and death fit in it perfectly. Well, but these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
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