The incomprehensible tidal theory

Arthur Martins Cecim

And he said, among the traces of sober sand:

A tale of how the waves tell us their brief dreams A tale or brief passage of the waves …
A brief history in the brief passing of a wave …

The waves of small waves, mixed with tiny and confused fluctuations. Fluctuations of the hurt itself. Little windmills and windmills that danced in vain and grew and described in the water, all those shoots that came, together and like a blind coast, broke on the shore, and broke so calm, that the serenity in me woke up, sweet , as a child wakes up tenderly from a tender, distracted dream.
I saw life in those eternal sagas of water, the riots of roots and fruits that floated to the flocks and that were brought and swayed, empty and solemn, to an eternal music music of the forms that caressed the ears and had such happy tears, playing with playing, that I felt touched and remembered by life and at the same time distracted by those scales of sounds, it is true that the waters are the mermaids, who quote life, so castaway, who recite the formation of things, they are so the zither of the causes.
The vases and bowls of the waves came, and they toasted each other, and they broke, and they gave that small laugh, and in the chasm, they returned to the old garden of their childhoods, the waves planted themselves and, when running smooth and naked, they launched themselves to the floor as if life was never spent, as if life was never hated, but only if moved. The tide was always training his death, but his death was the life he wanted to try again and again. Sometimes, a firewood would open up between the waves, and one of them would take the lead, running as if she had a rose in her smiles, meddling among her other sisters, and throwing herself brave among them, and in the waters. , in the harvest of the mother, she was brought back, daughter of the liquid principles.
I remember, I remember the fish that calmed, lying on the sand sheet, silent with the mantle of the sun, cooled by a midday tenderness, that when time stops so that the world has time. I remember well when I wandered among the traces of the fish, which made a picture of life on the ground, their eyes bulging and mirroring the sky of the gills, a handkerchief, I remember, that there was once among them, that said something of love , forgotten in those waves of time and stone, the sea of ​​stones on the beach and the waves of dead fish, bile by the billions, and I was looking for a key ring, that’s all, because I wandered looking for small ages between that eternity. I was afraid when I looked at those sneaky eyes, I took care of the tallest stones, I derailed with my child’s sandals, I remembered the words parents I always heard and the mother clouds that always accompanied me, and the calm wind that always softened me, and the sun that always came to me. The primal principles of the beach beckoned me down the slope, down the cliffs, with a glass without things, picking up the dead from the beach: a swept pile, an interior cover of the life of the houses, a letter of first love smeared with the lipstick of an infinite lip, pleading with the eternal, the can of a kite, with the smell necessary for the wax of a child, warned me with a strange fish that appeared small and bulky, full of air, and with the odor of old serenities. The sun touched me, burned, quarreled, at the loud baptism of the days and in the heat of the hourly schemes, until noon, when the fishermen left, taking their lines as honors, taking the opening-looking tins of the same the way and creed with which they arrived quietly in the heart of the beach, through the right tournaments on the banks, those tournaments that insisted they were crooked but that the fishermen themselves always knew about those insistences, and did not know any more tortuosities. But the face of one or the other of them came a little tortuous, with the fishing lines in hand, perhaps because he was at Mass with the day, taking your food seriously, oh.
I wandered among those stones and rocks without knowing the world, touching it in its principles, and lashed, searched and investigated the bones left by the life of the causes along the body of the beach, along the bare shore of the beach, and nails and dead hammers slept, candid, between the faces of that chaste and vast garden. I saw roe, open bellies, cocoons, birds, tidal waves coming, the end of her trickle, the ripples to calm, the lips of the waves to beat, blessed by the nefarious and warm sun, and to roll, in glupes of liquids, to glamar, in their daring walks, and they strode, from glories to glories, until raising and rehearsing their dresses to a sincere and respectful height. So it was time for me to leave, and, without finding the keychain I was looking for, I tapped at least one grated tin that no longer had an inscription and whose face was just a gray ruin because of the water splash.

I saw, from behind, the fish back there, in the midst of the forgotten lives of the objects of the infinite papyrus of life, while the wind blew me in the opposite direction, my hair strolled a little in the breeze, and I felt the soul of the late afternoon partly accompany me to the beginning of the beach paths, partly say goodbye to me there, right there. I would never see that afternoon again. Each day I said goodbye to the days. Each day was another wave in my life. A small tear ran from my eyes as if it were a free, happy stream when I said goodbye to that afternoon and all its actors. A small childhood ran from my eyes made of infinity.
I came home, baptized by the weather and the wind, but the road was long, crooked, and ridiculous, because I was lost because I wanted to. He had the scent of fish in his hand, smelled strongly of scale, came through the traffic on the path reading the rhizomes on the floor. There were thousands of days that I saw on the ground, because there I also read things of small age, a whirlwind of forgetfulness, oh but the beach, down the bank, enchanted me, because for it I read the childhoods and old age of the world, the way of the world, the eternal ways of the world, lost, to seek. I loved seeing with sincere eyes the sincere eyes of fish that seemed to bubble up some strange syllable, I heard the barking of a dog, from a park on the beach, barking in exchange with another dog, brooding mountains of improprieties, birds making sky over the carcasses, carcasses had ways of innocence, because they no longer had the law to say no, but they parched parchments, glorious words, puffed up their pride, willingly accepting the fate of their ruins. I loved to wander, vaguinho, little one, among those marches of stones, its columns, its heaps, its bridges over a dead man who fell asleep, proud, pleading for the clouds, his eyes that were with the ray of eyes half navigated, turned, red , and as it swelled, it grew from bilious to billion.
Calm seagulls grazed, and I went up the stream, shrewd and happy, with a slight regret in my eyes. Finally, he looked back at one last, at the last glance, and saw the sky of red foam massaging, the strong and strongholds of the sun receding in joy, the orange depths making castles around that kingdom, the bursts of yellow and blue to contract the apex of the Earth, the birds to cut that creative and brilliant picture, the rinse of the tide to take its old position, the deposition of the sun, retreating to a retreat only imaginable in our imaginations, the miracle of the sky indigo blue, dark, deep and beautiful as an unforgettable, passionate, manly, impressive sea, color of soul amplitude.
The rook of the seagulls wet the sounds, lifting and closing the veil of the cavities, they were the bundle of the new world, the end of the afternoon opened its wings and the liberating soul of indigo entered. So it was the time in my time that I arrived at my home.
Now, I see the coming of the low and low waves, I see the expansion of the waves, I feel the breeze of the wind like a resemblance of words, a sea of ​​airs to be zoned and headed for sleep, dream sleep.
Here I sit, watching a happy family playing in front of my
the eyes, the muscles of the water, which changed their tissues, and a laminar shine was reflected, they fell, all clasped hands, in the garden on the bank, the bucolic sounds, the liquid laughter, the babbling of those agonized tensions, each one trying to enter the tunnel, and the broths that engulfed themselves, and thus, a life of an imposing master wave, parading with range until it undid and alternated its way to the middle of the rattles, the muscles and the bodies of the vague waves contorted , blind, in a childhood game. Birds roamed the sky’s veils and means. The sea beat his hands. And the crests of the liquids advanced like crowns.
I saw, on the shore of the beach, coming to me like a message from the centuries of world and eternal waves, which brought sands and thoughts of the tide, a letter, eaten, of lives:
And he said, between the remains and the sober sand:

I went home the brother said the weather was not good we went but the rain so we stayed in our little house to see the moon see
if she was going to stay the night it was cold but what matters is the taste of living and well and
we played on the verge of counting how many steps the waves took and how many years would pass in a minu u and my brothers we loved collecting everything that was on the beach and
we returned home with an infinite smile that night of moon and sand

The pieces of that message, secretly torn by the hand of the water, left silent eternities between those traveling words, there was a glittering sand decanted on the edges of the paper, it seemed to me that it had the life of a world in those statements.
Meanwhile, breakdowns in the water, passages in it, touched me on the bank, touched my feet, and went back, so caressing, so touch of petals, that I felt an earthly desire to sleep.

The moon started to open, O, opened the sky like an animal. The noise of the water streams, liquid noises, familiar noises, hypnotize. Small animals began to appear, in that jungle of sands, nocturnal birds, fish, lizards, and the body in crisis of the sea, under the abyss of the dark sky, combed its messages among the water ropes, which were weaved and damaged, searching for messages.
I am sure that other messages may be secretly crossing the passages of the sea, strolling through the lives of the water, while the wavelet remained parable, with its liquid syllables erratic or permanent, lives wandered by the messages, and were brought with such honor by waves, were brought with such seriousness and love for the universe of waves, with so much longing and at the same time, calm and warmth, that I thought that the infinite universe of the sea brought them to us, me, to read them with calm and avid passion for life lived from those trips, to read with passion and love those corners of secret life, they brought them step by step, by the baths and trays of water, small cosmos of words, to read them with treasure and purity, they went, on the edge, to correct their destinations for other more tender and sensible hands, they the messages, sincere as those who brought them, the strengths of the waves. Mostly, they brought them with eager sincerity.
The noise was annoying. From glope and glope of water, in their nervous syllables, the nerves of the water contracted, like eternal messages through the long and vast tame paths, the marullha beat, with a touch of reaching, at the bottom of the wooden houses, and its sauce and bath there, in that aimless course, it was just a brave dance of the marias, water marches, that rebelled their hair, and braked their ramps and jumped on their sides. Whoever slept there would, indeed, feel as if a siren song was going to send him into a deep and delicious sleep. The open windows of that house on the bank, they invited the strange moon to illuminate the straight and high fields of the sea, which darkened the longer the distance became eternal. The lamps, reminders between the nights, dancing with slight remissions of the offshore wind, looked at each other, and baptized the water with their flares, as if opening children’s cracks in the dark animal of water. They also came, I remember with clarity, lies by the paths of the water, dead souls, storytellers of the distant and cosmic islands, paths … paths … they loitered by chance … the brief tales of the waves … the brief tales of the waves … the brief corners of the waves …

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CONSENOR – Uma Utopia Poética

CONSENOR – A Poetic Utopia

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