a mata escuta
os dez mil sons
da dança muda
das mutações
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a meta da mata: mudar.
=)
Parece que, neste tempo, só a mata tem tempo pra matar, escutando mutações.
Deve ser mesmo o que disse o Mucio, sua meta.
_Beijos.
Parece que teus poemas sempre trazem um olhar contemplativo. Eu imagino a Christiana poeta, ao mesmo tempo observando e participando. Uma perspectiva difícil de explicar, mas que para mim, você passa, com meia dúzia de palavras. Sempre me surpreendo.