My angel,
There are two days ago, I was walking under a blazing sun and the trees in the park. Came to get fresh air and some beautiful color to my melancholy, I was sweating without feelings of sweet, my lungs and throats of youth and summer. A fierce beating up my winter heat, and after a few hours the unequal contest, I gave up arms. I came up with the idea of walking to the Rose Garden. More than an idea, it was in fact an obligation, an imperative need, to walk in the rose garden. So my day had lifted it. He was bathing, dressing, eating, and going to the Rose Garden. I soon understood the reasons for this unpredictable pulse.
While the breeze of June was sweet to my nostrils the first scents of flowers, it seemed to unravel these sweetness tangled sound of your voice. My angel, once again, you gave me an appointment. You did not know and neither do I, and this is how it that our reunion has always been the most certain. In the first step I took along the flower beds, I began a delightful conversation with you. I'll try to report back. I'd be selfish to keep to myself so many delights you were the source.
Yes, of course, my angel, your skin fresh as often was far from the reach of my hand, and your brown curls sported in gusts that others breathe. But my friend, I swear that I rarely felt at my side with equal force and certainty. You never less smart vaporous.
On these roses your eyes, shaded by elegant worries arose with convenience. You're not one to denigrate the flowers faded, thankfully. You to look at their bedside, taking much thought for these fragile petals, though powerless in the face a sun of June. In passing a perfume made you shudder. I also leaned very close to your neck, feeling the girl who smells so good roses, and took a lot of worry too. If only the sun was threatening you, my troubles would quickly dispelled.
In the silence of the summer, so heavy that he choked up sound of our footsteps in gravel driveways, you let slip a few lines about the irony
deadly summers ... "What a sad story, you explain to young flower-and this same sun that was hatched yesterday you and you made him so beautiful now burn your wings. Enjoy the flight of the day, at night you'll be grounded. "
I stayed silent. I've never been able to add your beautiful evidences. I ran behind them as they chase butterflies. As I marveled
miracles that are born on certain days of summer. Here I am at my place in this rough picture. A muse in my arms, roses in their eyes, whose perfume I gave birth sonnets integers. It was enough to breathe to feel Rimbaud. What happened to the world in these hot happy? From all his mistakes that disfigure much of this soil which grew abject revulsion? Nothing perhaps. I saw you in 1910, covered with white lace, mounted on ankle boots, topped by an umbrella. I was proud to dress, feeling honored to have you designed for this delicate case where you were happy.
Yet in the distance behind the valleys of artificial botanical garden, rose up in smoke yellow fever in the city. Summer gets stuck there in the hot bitumen, and the scent of roses does not feel that in the books. You speak of the beauties found there, which are rooted in reality. You laugh at our bubbles, you drink to our happiness as we drink champagne, happy drunkenness of those hours, fireworks, increased knowledge of the realities gray. Visiting the rose garden, you were in my arms a beautiful stranger, fascinated by a world that you touch the untouchable of Dreams, smiling nicely to conceal your face embarrassment as the exotic.
And yet every night you come back to me sagging under loads of flowers cities. These blooms unlikely that color the stones, you only have this rare talent for taming. Away from drugs and fertilizers from the beautiful rose garden, you have always given flowers small enough esteem for their scent never leaves our everyday lives.
Behind that bush red balloon rises to this light, followed by a few seconds by the piercing cry of a desperate child. The poor little boy, nailed to the ground by inhumane sandals, looks through a wall of tear pride soar saturated in blue. He chases the ball fugitive volleys of insults and showers of tears. But the cries do not fly so high that the balloons, and soon they fade into the noise of the city. So many cries prematurely launched, so many tears fall from the nest for a loose ball. It would take more than the wind in June, even by a few thousand fragrant roses, to learn to fly in some despair.
We speak for nearly an hour, my angel, and yet this is a desert rose. In my mind happy my pen you write with glee. But when I lift my eyes from the blackened sheet, there among the roses dry dust lanes, and my loneliness that goes gusty beasts. I travel the roads with a great application, trying to note in passing all the details that might interest you. I am sharing my project soon to exercise this activity professionally. I'm becoming a great rose garden visitor. Ample above a thousand onlookers who cross without flowers, and mechanically raise their noses at random on the petals. Certainly the government would like to reward such activity. Indeed, why bother planting the heart of our cities such floral splendor, when no man can pay tribute to the poetry of these places. Upon my return I postulate, that is said. Here is a respectable activity for a sensitive young man. No doubt you marry me soon if I get this. Already
not take me away from my elegant fragrance of the rose garden and your eyes softened. I shudder thinking about the improbability of moments. I think jealously, beauty and eternal assured of these groves. What about that, much more rare, far more precious, more fragile and otherwise, your tender heart? If he had one, like yours, every spring, in what a beautiful harmony then bathe the lives of men ... But you're far
already my angel, and I must kiss you too often dreaming. I walk the streets and you dispel. At every street corner a line from your memory leaves my eyes, eyes that open again on a reality without you.
I will return to the rose garden, I'll be waiting like a lover wise, wiggling his fingers on a bench alone a letter from you giving appointment.
