enigmática saudade
Ô Mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps!
- Jun 27, 2019
- 28
The world was whirling. The world was blurry.
The world was red. The color of blood.
The poet laid in her own vomit.
The smell of alcohol.
In her nightmare,
countless people opened their mouths widely.
Their mouths were bleeding.
The words coming from their bloody tongues were
the sharp knives.
The knives
cut
her flesh
into
pieces.
The people
tore up
her poems
into
pieces.
The poet said to herself,
"My pain is most genuine words.
The world will see my intimate pain."
When she first saw the artist,
he was fully concentrated on creating a giant oil painting
in a silent room.
She had not met such a person full of
tranquility and tenderness in a long time.
He looked at her wrist.
A drop of blood
dripped from her wrist into his mouth.
He used the color blue
to draw a small sketch.
He told her the drawing is called
A Wounded Person.
He kissed her.
His eyes were full of compassion.
They were facing each other in a café.
She painted her nail red. The color of madness.
The fingertips appeared to be enigmatic
under the dim light. He whispered,
"The color of your nail polish fits you well."
He kissed her. His eyes were full of compassion.
They lived together in a small apartment.
She was writing. He was painting.
The darkness of the night gave them inspirations.
He set up an easel under the full moon.
She took off her clothes.
The moonlight was like water
washing her pale body, washing away her dark memories.
He sat in front of the easel and measured the proportion of her
naked body with his brush.
He was full of reverie
as if he was a medieval iconographer portraying
a sacred figure.
In the bed, she cried out of control.
He hugged her tightly.
Her cold tears soaked his warm chest.
His heart was beating hard under his skin.
He went into her body.
He touched her breasts with his slender hands.
She felt the strength and power of his shoulder.
They moved together under the moonlight.
When the moon reaches its fullest and brightest,
both of them established the deepest connection
between each other. At this exact moment,
the lifelong curse of solitude seemed to disappear from her.
But now he was gone.
Her moonlight vanished.
However, she could not use the dark night to conceal
her profound melancholy.
The moon did not set after it rose.
Instead, it disappeared completely.
It left a void of complete emptiness in the night sky.
The dawn had not arrived.
Yet, the moonlight disappeared already.
The world was red. The color of blood.
The poet laid in her own vomit.
The smell of alcohol.
In her nightmare,
countless people opened their mouths widely.
Their mouths were bleeding.
The words coming from their bloody tongues were
the sharp knives.
The knives
cut
her flesh
into
pieces.
The people
tore up
her poems
into
pieces.
The poet said to herself,
"My pain is most genuine words.
The world will see my intimate pain."
When she first saw the artist,
he was fully concentrated on creating a giant oil painting
in a silent room.
She had not met such a person full of
tranquility and tenderness in a long time.
He looked at her wrist.
A drop of blood
dripped from her wrist into his mouth.
He used the color blue
to draw a small sketch.
He told her the drawing is called
A Wounded Person.
He kissed her.
His eyes were full of compassion.
They were facing each other in a café.
She painted her nail red. The color of madness.
The fingertips appeared to be enigmatic
under the dim light. He whispered,
"The color of your nail polish fits you well."
He kissed her. His eyes were full of compassion.
They lived together in a small apartment.
She was writing. He was painting.
The darkness of the night gave them inspirations.
He set up an easel under the full moon.
She took off her clothes.
The moonlight was like water
washing her pale body, washing away her dark memories.
He sat in front of the easel and measured the proportion of her
naked body with his brush.
He was full of reverie
as if he was a medieval iconographer portraying
a sacred figure.
In the bed, she cried out of control.
He hugged her tightly.
Her cold tears soaked his warm chest.
His heart was beating hard under his skin.
He went into her body.
He touched her breasts with his slender hands.
She felt the strength and power of his shoulder.
They moved together under the moonlight.
When the moon reaches its fullest and brightest,
both of them established the deepest connection
between each other. At this exact moment,
the lifelong curse of solitude seemed to disappear from her.
But now he was gone.
Her moonlight vanished.
However, she could not use the dark night to conceal
her profound melancholy.
The moon did not set after it rose.
Instead, it disappeared completely.
It left a void of complete emptiness in the night sky.
The dawn had not arrived.
Yet, the moonlight disappeared already.
