trocavam textos.
Nele escrevia uma mulher que, pelos seus escritos, gerou pensamentos
e sentimentos.
Por sua conta, escrevi e lhe enviei esse texto.
E nunca soube como era essa moça.
***********************
Your write beautifully.
You know it! You are proud of it and show it!
I read you and start thinking about the writer... the woman.
I can't help it.
No picture, no hint of signs, shape or size.
How do you keep your hair and your nails?
Is your mouth arranged like mortal bait?
Do you produce poison when you eyelash a guy?
The way you walk, sit and get up.
The way you pout while thinking of an answer.
The art-director stares into recollection...
The looks, the sounds, the smell of creamy bath-soaps;
the breath of after-dinner Benedictine's liqueur.
No end to the various hills, valleys, jungles and placid
spaces of velvety skin and silky hair.
Too long a list...
Sure I am a silly and idiotic old man who makes up images.
Don't I know it?
But the question remains:- Would I enjoy your writings
so much if I knew what you looked like?
sc - Nov 2002
