quinta-feira, 17 de abril de 2014


Some nights I sew a blanket of sighs and whimpers.
Once wrapped and sheltered I weave waves of tears.
Many nights my certainties fray into confessions, also fade into faiths, in turn to be pure and red anger.
When the dawn comes, the wind blows intrepid insecurities under my blanket.
Closed and without escape: I pray for the seamstresses in my mind.