WEAVING THE LOVE AND PEACE OF THE KINGDOM
Sir, has my monarch died?
And you went, without even saying if you were coming back. You were without cloak or sword, without horse, you took nothing with you except your illusion. You left your life here, music with me, to keep me quiet and a bottle of nostalgia, to keep me sleepless. In the sky, the star of Aldebaran, on my chest, fire. Around our house, the fog prevailed and it was then that I cried to the lamb, sir, have you seen my knight-errant? Lord, I have longing in my heart, discover me, sir, my monarch who was lost in battle! The lamb did not answer me. Despite my despair. It is not that it was unimportant to him, but the delay in the response brings a test of effectiveness, to defeat fools and devils. Measure our devotion, whether it is fleeting or from the root of the heart. Which requires tenacity, persistence, of those qualities of which the masters of wisdom and time are made.
That night, the skies rained premonitions, and your smell in my nostrils led me to drunkenness, to before, to the shamelessness of life, to our nakedness as lovers, and I began to write your name on the walls, on the floor, in the courtyards, in the streets and in the shelves, in the open windows, in the old letters, in the illustrated postcards, in the photographs, Wherever my hands went , and thy name dwelt on every side, whether thou didst go up or down, run or stop, that thou shouldest never forget the origin of love, that thou shouldest ever forget where thou was, and how to return home, if such a case were to take place. And it was on that night that I discovered that my name was the appendix of your book, that his work was, more than a promise, the miracle of life, and the lamb of God who took away the sin of the world tore me by the collars to fatal fate, to colossal human failure, that lack of faith injected me with a substance that was not available in any pharmacy, in any laboratory, on the surface of the earth, which made the blood return to the veins and run madly, to the organs, the vitamin to bloom them, the sap of resilience, the madness of Saturnian patience, your name was a swing in the mouth of a woman who took refuge in the girl, That the Lamb of God who took away the sin of the world showed him not to fear that it was too late, that there were no delays and no impossibles in this mission of love, because it was always the right time, cultivated by the faith of that substance which, smaller, more invisible than the mustard seed, was amphetamine and vivified everything, everyone, wherever it went, and they called it elixir and forged bottles and jars, the merchant hawkers, the heralds of hermes, and sold this blessed nectar in droves, but what grew in us was the conventional, the repeated squared, not in my veins, in my whole body, it was honey and molasses, it was sweet as sugar and more resistant than steel and only the lamb knew the entire recipe, even shared with the whole world, there was a universe of unbelievers who only believed in what they saw, in the visible of matter and in the solidity of buildings, in the agglomeration of concrete, in the ephemerality of its usefulness. And love found space and ointment in the thirsty and longing heart of the girl woman who decided to wait for the wave of such a great ocean of longing to grow in her chest, and instead of the sea parting, like Moses, made a tsunami of repentance, and grew it without limits, exponentiated to the cubic root of the minimum size of everyone's faith, and yet love conquered, filled the houses with sperm and water, the perplexed mouths, the wings of the birds, oiled the doors and invaded the gardens, multiplied in a thousand, the delta of the rivers and the cross of sacrifice, Love united the heavens and the earth, tightening the embrace, continents and fissures, islets, asteroids and comets, and the fortune of love has won the war that men carried on and after the intoxication of passion between souls, there is only more calm and meekness in the mountains, in the dunes and in the sugarcane fields, we are all wounded, all mortal, love does not, love is the substance that abounds when fervent two knees nestle and enter into communion with the lamb. His name is Love, not destiny. His origin is faith in the path he has drawn. And its dwelling is internal, in the most perfect ear cave. And the Legends and Myths (Emídio Rodrigues and Óscar) brought me the Wind of Levant, in a Celtic sculpture, without Sparta, which I remember here, as another prayer on this night where the expression of love is repeated, which is vague, but persistent, and which, even meek, contaminates the blogosphere, extended to the Universe, in unhurried prayer, in the loving expectation that you will return. And may you find King Don Sebastião (Quartet 1111), my deposed monarch.
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