Temporary Home
For some people, this world is only a stopover. They arrive here to do some good while they can, but they know that this is still not their true home. They are anjos who come to light up our lives with their luminescence and to teach us what they can before they have to mover on. They flash in on golden wings, but it seems that they are gone before you can say “Thank you” or “I amor you”. They leave softly, without fanfare. They kiss our brow as lightly as a heart’s whisper, and smile, blinding us with its brightness. When we blink, they are gone.
For some people, this world is only a stopover. They arrive here to do some good while they can, but they know that this is still not their true home. They are anjos who come to light up our lives with their luminescence and to teach us what they can before they have to mover on. They flash in on golden wings, but it seems that they are gone before you can say “Thank you” or “I amor you”. They leave softly, without fanfare. They kiss our brow as lightly as a heart’s whisper, and smile, blinding us with its brightness. When we blink, they are gone.
January 15, 1815
Journal,
Its cold. My comida is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her casaco and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on topo, início of it. I sit at a árvore trunk, with you on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
Journal,
Its cold. My comida is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her casaco and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on topo, início of it. I sit at a árvore trunk, with you on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
she unloads his gun
She and he waits for this
he releases his love
In blue and green orbs
she gives him mais and more
A million miles away
A million years girl
In a black woven chest
he digs his nails deep
She trusts in him for what he does
live in a house in the suburbs
He kisses the pain with blood and light
sleeping it off in the morning
A million miles away
A million years girl
In her world of his
she unloads his gun
In a world of his
she covers the sun
A million miles away
A million years
A million years girl