Ludmila - Couple
A porta de vidro estava fechada. Premiu o botão da campainha. Os cabelos caiam sobre os olhos dificultando a visão mas teve preguiça de os retirar. Click.
- Quem é?
- Só um momento.- Sou a 77479077. Estive cá o mês passado. Simulei um enforca-mento. Agora queria...
A porta divide-se em duas que recolhem deslizando para os lados. Entra. A sala de cor metálica prata está escura e dificilmente vê o balcão onde anteriormente fora atendida. Era uma tarde de Sexta. Saíra do trabalho mais cedo. Faltara novamente a corrente eléctrica. Um novo atentado. Mais de cem feridos. Estilhaçados pelas pedras do buraco que os protegia.
A sala ilumina-se e uma mulher de casaco de fazenda castanho entra na sala por uma porta atrás do balcão.
- Eu pretendo simular o choque frontal...
- Não pretendo o vosso cenário. A garagem. O condicionamento. A experiência em ambiente fechado. Quero lá fora. Na estrada.
- O que lhe disseram? Aqui só fazemos simulações legais. Estamos registados e certificados.
- Sim. Já sou vossa cliente há uns meses. Como lhe disse o mês passado simulei o enforcamento...
- Gostei. Muito, mesmo. Mas quero... preciso... sinto que... pensei em fazer algo diferente.
- Eu sei. Já simulei afogamento... a pira... a tortura de Santa Ágata, a de Santa Luzia, e ainda que através de uma outra agência... a overdose e o ataque cardíaco... tenho gostado muito de todos os simulacros, mas ouvi falar no choque frontal real e senti-me seduzida.
- Olhe. Peço-lhe. Volte para a semana. Falaremos melhor e de certeza que conseguiremos arranjar-lhe uma experiência de morte que a agrade. Certo?
"The Dream Of An Angel’s Funeral II
ResponderEliminarAwakening from a nightmare
Lying over a cold grave
He has dreamed The Death
But now awakes living
And like before he curses that doomed place
From which he was cast out
And cries for something which could not exist.
He tries to sleep again
But strangely
He can feel the cold wind whispering
Taking every hot sleepy breath he takes
Turning his blood cold
As it was in the beginning.
He feels it
But does not care
For he knows that what use to make his blood flow,
Hot and pure,
Is now sleeping
Dreaming a death which he cannot conceive.
An angel which sent up the sun
Heating a night so cold as his heart;
An angel which frozen the stormy skies above
Making a bright world appear
Tearing the veil of tears;
An angel who would no longer
Smile upon his face.
He remembers Her face,
Covered by the roses of the tomb,
So pale
But yet so beautiful
And for the first time
He gazes coldly at the grave
And tries to erase the memory
That burns now his eyes
Adding fire to the burning deeps of his soul.
The same soul turns now to the black sky
As he spreads his wings over the grave
Again,
Like in the dream,
Only to realize he can’t fly no longer
Perceiving with dread
That the dream he dreamed
Was not a dream but a memory
Of what he had done.
Incapable of understanding
Why was he still alive
And not lying beside
The bed he had chosen to rest in for eternity
After the annihilation of his core and body
Only then
Comprehending the irrevocable truth
Not only he didn’t become a lifeless shell
As he was punished for the attempt
Becoming again the Doomed Angel he feared.
Everything became coherent again
As he saw a chance to reatain ataraxia
Invoking again a sad fate.
Grieving with the anticipated pain
His eyes sought trough the ground
Searching a sword which has once tasted flesh
The same bloody flesh that tempered Her cold metal
His own betrayed flesh.
It started to rain
As if clouds cried
For the act which was about to be committed.
Now certain of his fate
He grabs the cursed blade
And cuts away the now useless wings
Then tastes the blood stained sword;
His own poison,
A poison which corrupted his veins for far too long,
Runs along it
And covers his hands;
But it is ignored
As his eyes face the misty tomb of his soul
For the last time.
The impulse is now undeniable
And a blood stained hand
Craves the final whisper from his heart…"
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