Verses (by Teresa Wilms Montt)

August 25, 2009 at 12:05 am (gay)

Diary Pages

This is my diary.
In its pages becomes fluffier the wide flower of death, dissolving in underground sap and opening the love lotus, with the magic of a strange clear pupil on the horizon.
Its my diary. I’m abruptly naked, rebel against all that it’s stablished, great among the little, little in front of the infinity…
It’s me.

Sentimental Restlessness


The light of the lamp, dimmed by the violet shade, faints upon the table.
Objects take a somnambulistc tone of sickened dream; like if a consumptive hand would have caressed the environment, leaving in it its aristocratic listless.
An ungodly bell repeats the hours and makes me understand that I live, and reminds me also, that I suffer.
I suffer from a rare disease that hurts by doping; heartaches, misenderstood greatness, infinite ideals.
Disease that incites me to live in a different heart, to rest of the rough task of feeling alive inside myself.
Like the thirsty want water, I yearn for my ear listens a voice promising dazzling sweetness to me; I yearn for a children’s hand lays on my eyelits, tired of staying awake, and calms my rebel adventurous spirit.
That’s how I wish to die, like the light of the lamp upon objects, spread in soft and trembly shadows.


Hats give me the impression of chopped and mummified heads, and those colored bridled, seem to me like heads ripped by a brutal hand, which still has a bloody vein attached.
I can never spot a pair of gloves without imagining they are skinf from disecated hands and, on those that are yellow, I see something disgusting that starts to rotten.
I hate the garments left forgotten upon the bed, there are many analogies among then and the dead.
I saw once, in an institution, a crazy dead girl; and it was the same as watching a violet rag threw into a coffin.


Even when in my soul I shelter petty sorrows
my face lights up when I smile…
I curse and it is in such armonic way the gesture of my arms in its painful manner, that we might say they lift from a strange strength…
Oh agonizing century of human vanity! I’ve sown a piece of fertile soil, where you can spread
the first seed destined to the Promised Land.


…you know my tragic devotion to legends
of enchanted princes…
You know that a melodic tune and a soft song made me cry,
and that a word of affection made me slave of another soul, and you know, also,
that all that I’ve dreamt had a heart-rending reality.


Nothing I posses, nothing I leave, nothing I ask.
Naked as I was born, I leave now,
so ignorant of what in the world inhabits.
I suffered, and that’s the only luggage admited by the boat that leads me to oblivion.


I want that in wise escence, Peace descends over me
and floods kindly in freshness my undermined true self.


Ok, that was intense.

I hope you like it!


1 Comment

  1. carlsarevalo said,

    Is too sad…

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