terça-feira, 25 de agosto de 2009

New sprouts rising from the broken stem.

Winter... a dreary, sulky weather where we all sit and lie, hibernating on the inside, expecting a sun beam to pierce through the ever-hanging clouds and shine upon us.

Winter... fog and myst, hindering the way ahead. Put your lights on, son. Once again we fight the white cold flame licking at our ankles and neck with socks, scarves, coats, ear muffs, gloves, vests, lipsticks. Fighting fire with fire... we will face our very own loneliness and pettiness before Nature by blending hands and lips with some significant other, so the fire inside does not die. Yet the land lies ready.

Winter... a grown, wrinkled man groping for his glasses amidst the darkness. It broods in, he can hardly gasp for air as all his leaves have fallen to the ground, the time has come and he is not ready, one is never ready for that final stroke, for the end of the road, the plunge into the deep. Yet he encloses the seed inside himself..

Winter is when we win, despite the freezing wind. The Sun soon is to shine upon the seeded earth, and our new self is freed to roam upon it, rejoicing the spring of the New that's come knocking at our door.

Um comentário:

Alyne Neves disse...

Oh Leo, another gorgeous post! So sensitive, and even though so sharp.
My favourite of yours so far.

Hope you're doing good!!