Something painted the corners of the moon. A little blood red spot, tear shaped, coming from the moon’s dark side.
The sheet was blank and the pen spinning trough the poet’s finger like a coin in magician’s hand. The poet laid back on a oak tree, on the shores of adark river, specialy on that full moon night. Suddenly a shiver ran down the poet’s spine, when he reallized that the moon’s blood tear didn’t reflect on the cry of the river stream.
A new idea had given hope to the poet’s attemp to understand the world, inebriated like he was he decided to write with verses. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
A caravelle majestically stormed through the upstream horizon of the river. Dreams and wills opened their way on the dark waters. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
From afar strings cried out. Two guitars glitered in the solitude of silence. The poet’s soul filled and shone. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
Near him a woman was swiming, gracious in her nudity. Beaty and passion irradiated from her body. Mourns from impossible loves and rashed desires give light colour to her dark eyes. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
The city’s noise changed the poet’s atencion the it’s haste. The poet then clearly saw the sweat of people’s effort, who cruely spin and turn,and make this living city breath. He clearly saw the motives from those that ride on the fragile wheel and drink from sweaty and broken skulls. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
A child wept, a brief cry of sorrow. And the poet saw. Saw a mother coming down the street, with her wipping child on her arms. Saw the callus on the hands and feet of the broken woman. He saw the eary shadows under her eyes and the love they shone. Saw a father in the tabern, falling from not knowing what he does, falling from the wheigh of the air on the bottle, falling from the disgrace he was educating. Saw a weak father, thin from not eating, dead-walking from not sleeping, smiling because he is raising him. Saw a mother crying, with the child in the cradle sleeping, weeping for what life had done to her, reinventing storys of happy ever afters with her as the main caracther. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
Saw the child laughing, and saw trough the child’s eyes. He saw the poet, he’s vision, he saw what he didn’t know and what the poet knew. The poet saw the child smiling, and he saw it was pure, not of innocence but of understanding. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
He heard the sailor and listen to him. “The King D.Sebastian is dead! As so is the fifth empire!”. He saw the black trail of the caravelle that shouted the dissapointement and surrender of a people. He saw the sails turning pitch black as they disapear on the down stream horizon. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
He heard the sound of the last note in the break of the strings, the weep of the fingers and the mourn of the mind. He heard the noise of the naked woman diving deep. But the pen didn’t move and the sheet was still blank.
He looked to the clean surface of the moon and felt it shining. He looked at the surface of the river e saw the blood bursting in the water. The pen didn’t moved, but the poem was writen.