My blood

My blood

The poetry is life, is blood

It is breath, it is lung, it is heart

Without the smell of the flowers

Without the smell of the passion

I am not me, I am not a living thing

I am the shade of the illusion

I do not exist without the feather

Without the ink in my veins

I am paper in white pages

I am hostage, I am prisoner

On the inside of a chain.

Brasília 04/02/2007

Evan do carmo