terça-feira, 16 de junho de 2009
Then I take the old amateurish harp from under the bed.
I feel the dust moving out of its surface and sticking to my finger.
It was my great-grandmother's, I wonder.
Now, it accidentally belongs to me.
I look at that wooden box, the wires seeming to yearn for some rust to eat them.
Maybe tired of having been streched since what? the 40's?
I look at the hole in the middle of that trapezoid, hollow. Is that a mirror?
I reach out for a sheet. Do you really think I can play it without following the guidelines?
It's the one. That one. I place the lines on the paper under the wires and I place the tip of my right index finger against the chord.
Now, I just have to follow the dotted line, note after note.
Tan, tan, ran, ran, ran...
My mind withdraws and I see him in front of me.
This makes the distance increase. Who are you, stranger that I love?
Why did we get away? How come?
And you, that should be the one to protect me and care for me, throwing words like darts.
They pierce and I cringe.
Your hands are so cold. You look so thin.
I wish things were like they used to be.
I guess it's too much wishing.
Tan, tan, ran, ran, ran.
And as he vanishes I see her.
The one who should be something else.
The one who made me change
Up to a point I was lost and found.
She who moved mountains and was still a moaning baby.
She from her pedestal was strangely still looking up to me.
She just excused, mumbled some words, it's better if..., we'd better stop...
I bowed. I said I agree, you always know what's right and hugged her, so that she could not see the tears running down my face. They would probably make her hair and shoulder wet. But we only notice what our desire allows.
Why are you avoiding the mirror, my friend? Why is your handshake so feeble?
Tan, ran, ran, ran,
Tan, ran, ran, ran,tan
Tan, ran, tan, tan, tan
Suddenly, I see them no more.
I feel the warmth and I have to use my hands to protect my eyes from the blinding light.
I am the new Elijah
I savor the past, feast on scraps of what people did to hurt me.
It's so inviting, womb-like.
I climb one step. I stop to give them a chance to say goodbye.
Another one, and I am already grasping the sense that my soul is striping off some feelings.
(but I am here in my mold?)
I penetrate this chariot of fire, softly, gently, as if it was home.
Where to? the angelical conductor asks in a mellow voice, firm but melancholic.
He sees it as clearly as I do.
To the old continent, please.