segunda-feira, 31 de janeiro de 2011

The Naked Thought

The pure sound flows
From the childish heart
It grows,
Without clothes or mask.

When the brand approaches
The iron goes cold  
Nothing can't melt its laces
Even when someone
With fists attached so told.

Because the chaste pure thought
Can't bear any ashes.

The naked thought stay
Calm. Has no fear or need
No claims for someone to say
“here is a blanket warm”

It’s the whole in its littleness
It’s the adult finding
Answers in its own hiding
Innocent bareness.

Mariana M.

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