There's
not much to tell about the view.
Though
nature had featured its best impressions upon that side of the hill,
scattering chest- and walnuts along side with beeches and ash trees,
it's not the view that would catch one's attention, I hope, but the
starkness left hovering over that decaying terrace, on the backside
of the house.
The
roughness of the cracked pillars, standing alone, missing the warmth
of an hand, the envy of an eye, was smoothed by the sweetness of the
arcs connecting them.
Imagine under what circumstances people have roamed there in
search for the view to appease their yearning for some or more love,
happiness, understanding, surely health too
imagine
the gatherings held under honeysuckled dusking skies, voices laughing
to the rhythm of crickets, wine, lots of wine pointing up to the
stars, joining spirits in a blended white diaphanous moon
imagine
the kisses and whispered sillinesses, the bodies, the language of
tender pressures smudged against the solidity of the columns
imagine
how often they have stood behind a window, watching, gazing at a
storm's rage plundering the heart of the stone
And
now
you realize all that is gone and this time
was not about you.
yet
You were just an observer.
©
2014, José Eduardo Coelho
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário