Outonos

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Tua essência de pintar para mim com cores que ainda não conheço. Teus sentidos todos evocados por uma de mim que não está coberta por um véu e que teus olhos não alcançam. Faço de mim uma sombra clara como a nesga de luz que entra pela janela do apartamento tranqüilo numa manhã de outono. São só os outonos que trazem sossego. Os outros trazem martírio.
Imagem: Max Ernst, The Invisible Piano.

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