Praça

vinha vindo em esvoaçantes passos
e velada dor nos olhos invernais
variava a rota com vagar
/ por entre /
os vultos vegetais.

o vento afagava sua figura
fina
desfilava entre folhas mortas
- revoltas em furioso redemoinho -

que, roçando em seu frio rosto
ronronava ruídos
e riscava lágrimas;

arruinava-a.

ai, ai.

eu estou num daqueles dias que a gente parece inspirar e o ar vir carregado de melancolia, e quando você olha para o vento roçando nas árvores você vê a melancolia impressa no ato e pensa que tudo aquilo é tão tão bonito e tão tão triste, e aí você suspira bem fundo e percebe que seu corpo não é um receptáculo suficiente para extravasar o suspiro bem maior que você gostaria de ter soltado, então você suspira profundamente várias vezes e as pessoas que estão perto te perguntam o que você tem, se está apaixonado; e é uma conclusão tão disparatada que você tem vontade de dizer que está enamorado pela realidade, pelo mundo que vaza melancolia por todos os prótons.

se.

'Se a gente já não sabe mais
Rir um do outro meu bem
Então o que resta é chorar
E talvez se tem que durar
Vem renascido o amor bento de lágrimas.'
pois é...

Composition #4

Once there was no America, no Italy and no Pope, only the huge roman empire ruled by Vespasianus. In that time, christianism was a forbidden creed, so their believers were hunted down and tortured. Some of them, due to these violent treatments, became mentally affected.
And that was the case of Alexius, a joyful young man, who had lost his right thumb when attacked by two drunk legionaries in the last villagge. He had wan away bleeding, in the middle of the night, mumbling beetween his sudden hysteric laughs. However, this incident had been more than ten days before, so he was almost healed.
Alexius finally found another city, which was located at the foot of an enourmous mountain. It was night, and the breathing was as difficult as if the air was magma. He straightened his ragged cloak and stepped in, doing the cross.
Not even two hours had passed when he was found by a violent legionary. Alexius began to run away, closely followed by the berserk. He tripped and fell. The man rose his spear. And petrified. Alexius too, and the entire city, as well.
The mountain wasn't a mountain, as Alexius had thought. It was a vulcan; the city was Pompey, and the year was 79 a.D. .

Huh... sorry, I guess.

Indeed, I really don't know what I'm doing. Again. And again. And again.
However, it was very good to meet you. And it is.
I'm sorry to use this sentence (I'm almost like my grandma', after all), but I'm just sixteen. Or seventeen; it won't make a big difference. -Yes, I'm trying to justify my lack of knowledge and full awkwardness at the subject; sorry about that.
Well, I think that's it. For now.
I sincerely think I haven't "arrived" at a good time. I'll write later 'bout it. Probably.