sábado, 19 de março de 2016

Mornings like this...

It is a grey, crisp morning. I was outside, watching three birds on a tree, imagining what conversations they could be having as they chirped and sang to each other. My gaze shifted lower, to the left, and a white feather floated downward, I have no idea from where it had travelled. It twirled in the air, lingering in places, up and down, then around... I wished for it to stay, I wished that I would not lose it. And then it fell, as if it were waiting to be taken, so that once again it could belong to someone. I picked it up and looked around, just to be certain that I had been its chosen one. The birds had left.

8 comentários:

  1. Morning has broken like the first morning
    Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
    Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
    Praise for the springing fresh from the world

    Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from Heaven
    Like the first dewfall on the first grass
    Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
    Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

    Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
    Born of the one light, Eden saw play
    Praise with elation, praise every morning
    God's recreation of the new day

    (Gato Esteves)

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    Respostas
    1. O gato comeu a língua do Bartolomeu. Que pena, que pena... Senti a sua falta no outro dia.

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    2. Qual foi o dia de todos os outros dias, em que a Rita missed me?

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    3. Foi o último dia que postei um dos meus (péssimos) "poemas"...

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    4. Curiosamente, ia mesmo postar um link para essa famosa música do Gato Esteves!

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    5. E ias partilhar o Gato Esteves comigo, ou era só para teu prazer privado?

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  2. Eis aí a razão da falta: Os poemas da Rita nunca são péssimos. No entanto vou rever...

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    Respostas
    1. O Bartolomeu é sempre muito generoso para comigo...

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