Requiem for a love that it had to die...
Heading towards the horizon the
tears look for the dryness that gives the
oblivion, which hollows again that
emptiness that allows new abundances,
another one but that frightens the
truth, the gone hill...
They begin their trip forcedly, as
errant souls, as shy fairies without a
page boy who introduced them, strolling
by the turbid waters of the port
without losing of sight of the wharf yet
simultaneously not wanting to see it.
As a blind-in-one-eye person searching
towards the absent side, livid furrowing
the turbid and greasy surface, they turn
outwards and then they return... And
then they return...
Perhaps due to the fear of confronting
unknown seas, perhaps due to the
useless hope of knotting that torn end,
perhaps... They look beyond and spy
on the Age, where what it used to be
remains. Her will advances and the
reserve of the past calms her down...
Then they go, or at least they think
so...They head to the ocean and they
leave... The love agony was never a
bearable landscape. Never. It hurts
They go, they leave ... Are they
fleeing? In their feeling, undoubtedly,
but not in their desire. The loss of
voice of an I you love it does not turn
you into an atheist, but it makes your
sense of tomorrow inert. And leaving is
healthy, even with the rancor of
In search of a nice awakening,
painting that hair with silver color, still
perfumed, dyeing that face with
shadows, still loved... The tears sail,
they row, they swim... They suffocate
and they breathe... They die and they
They fight for not needing that warm
embrace, they burn the scars of those
tender caresses, they kiss the waves for
not having those lips being attentive...
And wise are the winds which in that
dark night dress like hurricanes and
strike the ship with knavish hatreds,
with blows of break... Without any
cure, thus rage does not remove
bitterness, but with a deep cleaning.
These are very hard times... The case
that wraps a heart that loves cannot be
removed easily and prays the lame
soul to the red departure of every sunset
that demolishes the walls of that prison
that denies us new dreams to us... But
it is not enough, emphasizing the
impotence is not enough. It is
necessary to wait, to live and let die in
order to able to heal...
And that is the way it is, that is the
way it will be: the tears will sail, they
will row, they will swim... They
will suffocate and they will breathe...
They will die and they will revive... And
at the end the day, that day will come:
the Sun will shine again and at the
bottom of a pacified sea, my sea,
probably yours, dry, surprisingly dry
tears of coldness will lie…
And someone, then, will be able to sing
that sad yet hopeful ode, which narrates
the burial of a wedding, the one that
tells the confinement of yesterday, which
affirms "I do not love you ". It is
possible that fate does it, maybe a
distracted mermaid, it is even possible
that I sing... It will Be a
beautiful ballad written with tears, from
me, for you... It will Be a requiem for
a love that it had to die...
"The most difficult
is not the first kiss,
but the last one"
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