last night I was walking on a quay of the Seine, between dream and memory. Fate does not care for his heavenly seat of our troubles, these wounds that haunt, haunting. And I walked along the Seine somewhere deep in my memory, I imagine, and envisages the brown water. Often. Too.
My eyes are a gray sky. Their tears rain. My cheeks of the blocks, and my whole body tarnished. I have a heavy heart, I feel heavy, grave, spirit drive. The sensitive soul. Nerves open. Blood hot. And veins to live. What happened?
I passed by the wharf, when I confronted the horror, terror, one that kills before announcing the duel. The black vault beyond the vaporous masses, stones greasy, oozing their putrid cargo defections river, gulls extended, tired, my feet in the middle of Paris, everything radiated the strange sensation of a near wake. Oh nightmare! You who watches teeth, snapped in Cerberus hungry, itchy paw in front of your matador, let me! The border
cynical pessimism is thin and I have no strength to poke fun of the real evils, I sink every moment, every shot a little more in the doldrums. I sleep there, naked, cold and frigid on the banks of the Seine by repressive times. Red and purple are the sets of my melancholy, this bloody spectacle that I endorse in spite of myself, which I watch helplessly. When will it end there? God himself knows. Simply, I dreamed of a walk of a Parisian year, a dramatic deleterious, which I was author, actor and spectator. We're connected to ourselves ... And I am dying.
The pink tint then fades and rots.
My eyes are a gray sky. Their tears rain. My cheeks of the blocks, and my whole body tarnished. I have a heavy heart, I feel heavy, grave, spirit drive. The sensitive soul. Nerves open. Blood hot. And veins to live. What happened?
I passed by the wharf, when I confronted the horror, terror, one that kills before announcing the duel. The black vault beyond the vaporous masses, stones greasy, oozing their putrid cargo defections river, gulls extended, tired, my feet in the middle of Paris, everything radiated the strange sensation of a near wake. Oh nightmare! You who watches teeth, snapped in Cerberus hungry, itchy paw in front of your matador, let me! The border
cynical pessimism is thin and I have no strength to poke fun of the real evils, I sink every moment, every shot a little more in the doldrums. I sleep there, naked, cold and frigid on the banks of the Seine by repressive times. Red and purple are the sets of my melancholy, this bloody spectacle that I endorse in spite of myself, which I watch helplessly. When will it end there? God himself knows. Simply, I dreamed of a walk of a Parisian year, a dramatic deleterious, which I was author, actor and spectator. We're connected to ourselves ... And I am dying.
The pink tint then fades and rots.
Journal , Sebastian Asran Zala Charles
0 comments:
Post a Comment