A Hamlet of Myself

Ahead of the paper we see the white
The same that our soul prospers
The white of the feelings, that is chimera.

The challenge is to ahead write the first line of a verse
Of the paper, for hours, I was immersed
Without nothing to tell, nothing to make, only looking at and saying:

"To be or not to be?"

Where are you, inspiration? Where are you, illusion?
Did you died in the lake with Ophelia,
Or was banished and wounded with the darts of my disenchantment?

How to say the truth when everything in us is only questions?
How to say any deep words and full verses of enchantments,
When no word takes brightness when overlapping a blank page?
How to say that yes, if everything in us says them that not?

"To be or not to be? That´s the question!

Let us drown us in our sleep, therefore they say, with it, we finish the regret it heart and innumerable the natural conflicts that constitute the inheritance of the meat!

And ahead of the conflict, that end could more devotedly be desired?

To die... To sleep... Perhaps to dream!"

To desire that the next day was the next, that everything in return was different tomorrow.

To erase the marks of yesterday, to discard forever what it will negative inflict in ours mind.

Repelling us thus of all the anguish.

Who knows rescuing Ophelia and bringing with it in return all our inspiration.

I am ahead of a paper, that represents nothing less than my own life:

I am a Hamlet of myself.

I am ahead of words that describe all my happiness.

This theatrical being that acts to the times like an animal, who will be? The bitterness?

Where it is? For where it was? With who him disappeared?

It is taken refuge exactly in himself.

"To die... To sleep... Perhaps to dream.

And is thus that the conscience transforms it into coward,

Is thus that the verdor primitive of its resolutions if debilitates in the pale shade of the thought

And is thus that taken over on a contract basis from the importance, with similar reflections, they deviate its course and they leave to have the action name."

Being now the silence and only illusion.

Portuguese Version

Blogtree

www.oscarcalixto.com/blogtree