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The fire is liquid in your hair(Warning: my English is horrible)
- The Fire is Liquid in your Hair -
The fire is liquid in your hair
Stooped on the window of dreams.
It drips from the tresses released in the wind,
And comes to warm me,
It embraces me in a slow touch
Of whom fears and flees
From the world.
Don't fear, because fear
Desires to steal life,
And it's huge the life that you refuge
Away from sight, lost,
In the woods of thought.
And I fear, I fear so much,
By hurting you.
You flee without running,
You ignite with words
What you wish never to see
In flames so astute of life.
You don't understand then
This silent hand
Which extends itself for you.
I wait and listen to
The crepitating sound that fills you,
The threat that is a nude lie
Told to you by you, yours alone.
And I erase it with an embrace
So honest that I lost myself
In the liquid fire of your lap.
- O Fogo é Líquido no teu Cabelo -
O fogo é líquido no teu cabelo
Debruçado à janela dos sonhos.
Pinga das madeixas soltas
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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