Marketing
~san::krv::moonlight~
Žao mi je jer glas kiše nije uspio nadjačati zvuk motora one velike limene kutije na kotačima.
Pružila sam ruke kroz pravilni otvor u betonu, htjela sam osjetiti hladne kapi na dlanovima.
Miris kiše i smoga vraća me u sadašnjost.
Znam da žarko želite da prihvatim vašu stvarnost.
Ali zašto mislite da je vaša stvarnost stvarnija od moje?
Dopustite mi da sanjam ljubičaste oblake na nebu čak i onda kada moje tamno crvene cipelice dodiruju zeleno-žutu palastiku.
I rekli ste mi da ne vidite moja siva krila, ali to ne znači da ih nemam.
Bosa ću tapkati po stijenama jer želim ,želim pozdraviti stablo.
šaljem poljubac srebrenom Mjesecu i zlatnim zvijezdama,
zrake sunčeve svjetlosti, peku me, zaspat ću negdje skrivena...
prestat cu sanjati kad me dotakne mjesečina.
Oscar Wilde mentioned a butterfly=)
~"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.~
from: The Nigthingale and the Rose
by Oscar Wilde
Post je objavljen 21.05.2006. u 00:57 sati.