Caged 12
Only one more to go.
*
Ser poeta é ser mais alto To be poet is to be higher
É ser maior do que os homens To be greater than average men
Morder como quem beija To bite as if you're kissing
É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja To be a beggar and still give
Rei do reino de Aquém e de Além Dor As if you're the King of All Pain
É ter de mil desejos o esplendor To have the splendour of a thousand desires
E não saber sequer que se deseja And not knowing you desire at all
É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja To have a flaming star inside you
É ter garras e asas de condor To have the condor's mighty claw and wing
É ter fome To be hungry
É ter sede de infinito And thirsty of infinity
Pôr elmo a manhãs de oiro e de cetim To tame gold and satin mornings
É condensar o mundo num só grito To condense the whole world in one cry
E é amar-te assim, And it is to love you thus,
Perdidamente Heedlessly
E é seres alma e sangue e vida em mim And you being soul, blood and life in me
E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente And to sing this for all to hear
Ser Poeta – Florbela Espanca To be a poet – Florbela Espanca
*
I wake up and he belongs here.
He has never belonged here.
Here.
Dust, cold.
Unwanted spoils of battle belong here.
I belong here.
Now I look at him and he belongs here too.
And I've never loved him more.
I could easily mistake him for a ghost.
Pale and grey.
Grey suit. Or maybe it just has too much dust on it for me to be sure about it.
He is sitting by the corner.
Knees drawn to him.
Head resting on his arms.
Long, pale fingers intertwined.
The wrecks of a great ship that surface with the intensity of a storm I did not see.
The roar of thunders I did not hear.
The smell of sea I did not feel.
And fierce waves that did not lash at my skin.
White foam that kept nothing from my perception.
He's all paleness and cold.
But as my eyes travel his body I notice the burst of colour here and there.
The rusty red of drying blood on his silver hair.
The amethyst bruises on his knuckles.
I'd never imagine such a hurt Draco.
"Draco?"
"Weasley."
I reach for him.
Tears fall. His.
I pull him to me.
"I killed him."
"I see."
"No. You don't. I killed _him_."
"Harry."
"Yes. I killed Potter. I killed him."
"I see."
"No. You don't."
And he is right. I probably don't. Because deep down beneath the waters I know. I get this… feeling. A feeling that tells me that I'm supposed to be taking this with a whole different attitude.
That I should not be comforting him.
But it's not something that I can't _not_ do.
So I hold him.
And he soon sobs.
Hard, hot kisses almost undo our lips.
We kiss as if we're biting.
Desire streams with such fierceness through our veins that our blood hurts.
Everything in me trembles with anticipation.
With the splendour of a thousand desires.
Despair and fascination mar his beautiful features while he studies my body with his hands and lips.
Like he is hungry and thirsty for infinity.
I worship his body in turn.
I made him up in delirium and now I have him real inside of me.
His desperation is palpable.
It's like he is forgetting to remember.
Trying to die and be reborn in my arms.
Passion mounts and scorches all, enflaming deserted beaches.
And I can't seem to understand it.
Any of it!
How could I have existed without his touch?
Without him the dawn would no longer spin its dress of scattered stars.
The dunes would refuse the winds' caresses.
And perfection reaches such point that when the world explodes into shards of light, a rain of dying embers, I don't even care.
I don't even care that he calls me Harry.