Descobrimos ontem que temos uma poetisa em casa: eh a Pavi.
Achei tao lindo o poema dela que resolvi copia-lo.
"The edges of things are always deceptive
because we are taught to believe in endings an beginnings
but the truth is there are no borders
and all boundaries are lines drawn in the imagination
(like th equator)
people like to put things in their places
(we believe in belonging somewhere)
this is the trouble with poetry
(it does not understand belonging)
and it will not be put in place...
with crayons on paper maybe...
but who can live life stricly inside-the-lines?
The colar of countries that cannot be contained
in cliche where the red of your heart spills into the
red of roses spills into the
red of the sunset spills into
mehendi on the hands of a bride
and who can explain these things?
but what I want to know is simple:
who settled the sky on top of the mountain
and who drew the restless margins of the sea?
everything flows into evertythings else
like a picture drawn without once
lifting pencil from paper:
this world - now tell me the story of your life
(who ever you are)
go on I double dare you
tell me the story of you life...
without once touching...
P.S.: os negritos sao da autora