Sometimes Sometimes I find myself sightless on forgotten days where sobs of rain hit windshields like eager fingers. My memory climbs the torn horizon, green, blue and grey against that fold in the sky where the dark and lazy waves tickle rocky shores and pebbled beaches. Sometimes my breath holds still far from my mother’s flowers. No scent of salty spray from waves yawning and tumbling over the crabs, scavengers on stubborn rocks. I can’t smell the sugar cane rattle like muffled wind-chimes filled with spirits and molasses. Sometimes I scream so loud I can’t hear the wood crackling as flames languidly lick the meat lanced through with a straight bough. The thick ancient forest, milking the clouds, drop by drop, does not whisper in my ears all the different shaped petals and the loud colours now mute. Sometimes I forget the freshness of the ocean hugging and nursing me, or the soft breath of the sun colouring my hair and skin with copper and gold. Then it all comes back as I feel my cold skin; I’m not tanned anymore. Gonçalo Taipa Teixeira
Posted on: Thu, 12 Sep 2013 10:33:10 +0000
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