VINTE E NOVE E PICO......

Está frio.Frio de rachar, de enrrugar, de mirrar as vestes, as mãos, as orelhas que estão descobertos da penugem civilacional.
Todos rodopiam nos tons de cinzento refletidos pelos polares chegados logo após os vinte e nove.
Os estranhos de segunda partida passam indiferentes dos lamentos dos que sem o estar já estiveram e foram felizes nos intervalos da mocidade.
Chegados ao intervalo da nossa existência devemos ver os sinais produzidos pelos deambulantes invisíveis que nos questionam sem nada dizerem, porque esses sem nada dizerem inspiram-nos para evitar o profundo fosso do percurso.

Está frio. Frio de rachar, logo vou ...
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Tell me how it was ... 2nd Monday of the month sometime in October 2010, the weather threatened rain without the pots, but tends to scare them bald. We breathe the cost due to the fog that stubbornly resisted the attacks of small droplets in polluted stubble park. Our friends with whom air had passed a night of clarity, here appeared to show the marks that only allows reading age wrinkles carved by autumns have driven. The range of our escape to the infinitely probable approaches without consulting us if we're ready to receive or to offer to others who have a different view of the meaning of witness pathways. But now it is missing so that leaves us no room to recover what we so ardently desire with imagination clouded by creatures dying. The real star shows up timidly to the mortals who insist on with their pettiness, the whining that do not respond to the ideals they never had. That's what I saw and felt sad this morning, but with the hope of a new day.