post\stone v2.1a

fimmtudagur, febrúar 21, 2008 makes me d_i__s___a____p_____p______e_______a________r

do i let go to live
do i leave to let go?

the hands, your hands
a phantom,
floating on me...

the crystal balls, the old puppy dolls,
the window, the curtain, the closed doors,
the small bloodstains your life did not hide,
the fragile dreams we were not afraid to handle,
the tear gas, leaving hope, the idiots,
the flowers, the pins,
take it slow;
the future, the broken needles,
to the end of a show,
to the hillside,
i feel i must go

away from the world where the wind blows
some lives have come and gone
and i am now a lonely star
i find myself in the times
when god was an angry childish voice
burning down his own home
long before he was crucified
in the divine curse to look forever after
the world
he had just destroyed

the world didn't change, did it?
and we... we didn't change... did we?

rafael at 4:51 f.h.
föstudagur, febrúar 15, 2008 the legend of fenrir the tower

of a green tower / towering above the rest / in the desert

i have seen better days i have seen clear water i have seen brighter clouds i have seen the sky is blue my needles my own pain for today i am lost the sun is sinking the sun is dripping on me i am going down the sun is blue the clouds are clear i have seen better pain i am sinking about i am going down slipping by the ground the sky is cold the world is blur i have seen better blur blurred days have seen better clouds i am going down dripping on the world blurring one's crusade

hold on / the desert is a bridge; / all i ever wanted was to reach the skies / i have seen better skies / i must start again / fail / and try again

this is a tale my children told me, and in the future, will be told by my children's children to its parents. the story will repeat. it will never die. it never died.

rafael at 3:46 f.h.
laugardagur, febrúar 09, 2008 e eu pintava meu quarto inteiro (pra tirar a poeira)

meu quarto inteiro era pintado
de azul
a cor que eu queria
na hora que eu queria
e não tinha hora ruim não
era sempre
de hora em hora
o momento era lembrança
meu quarto era minha vida
não tinha teto, não tinha muro
desabava e refazia
ao relento
que nem uma merda de poesia
(tipo essa)

rafael at 11:43 f.h.

das memórias.