The Blood Poem

And the color of blood red was actually blood indeed. Then when he saw that the ink was gone and there was no longer any place to dip the pen to write. The poet in a psychotic outbreak, took the feather heavily. And after staring into his own left arm. With such a disturbed expression, he simply injured himself. Sticking his feather in his left arm.
As she resisted a sharp pain, blood flowed down her arm. A pain that resembled several bee stings in one place in the body. So not to waste time he used his own fresh blood, dripping from his arm, to finish the poem.

Called:

Pain love and blood

If death no longer fears,
What remains for me to fear?
If not the fact of a lifetime
long and lonely away from
my beloved dead.
And all the pain I carry
It serves me as a weight.
immeasurable of anguish.
And I see myself here in the distance
all, whose only joy to
to plead
Are the songs of birds
out there and the beauty of the dawn.
Beyond the beautiful garden outside
and the trees to rock
also out there.
And the hours spent with
time observing the rhythm
of the wind.
But the sadness of coming and
at my door knocking.
And then take care of me.
Then in those hours and in those
moments, I find myself immersed
in pain, blood and love.
Besides my longing for my
beloved flower
Reminding me that nothing
It brought me more thanks and
joy than she.
His pure way of being, his laughter,
your singing and your beautiful voice.
And everything else that I miss is me.
reminds and forever
love.
In a sweet and bitter mixture
of pain and pleasure.
So how can I forget about yours?
Gorgeous look? that I
to always love Signed: Pedro José
to my beloved, Elisa. Year 1886. "

And the yes that finished the poem the poet went to where it was the dressings and took some things like a gauze. A tissue commonly used in medicine to bandage some type of bodily injury. Then after the same poet who in madness and disturbed. Still, the conscious yes bandaged her arm. He got some coffee and came back a little morbid or pale, to his room.
And holding the cold doorknob half as much as the worn paint, the solid wooden door. Firm, whose rusty hinges made a certain noise as he opened and closed the door. As if something were grinding his teeth in an agonizing and disturbing way. It gave a sense of inner agony, coming straight from the bottom of the soul.
Then he opened the door and went to the poem, where he looked with an expression of satisfaction and duty fulfilled. And from the side he noticed himself, through the window glass, from the top of the room, holding the hot coffee cup with both hands. Who saw her beloved playing, entertained and laughing among the flowers of that beautiful Garden. Then he ran down the stairs, opening the door to the living room, heading straight out. And she ran to the garden, whose mirage of her lover continued to play laughingly and happily.
Running he went there screaming the name of his beloved: "Elisa! Elisa! Elisa! "That in the midst of so many flowers was lost, disappearing from the eyes and eyes of the poet. Disappearing right in the middle of the red roses, that in the place where she disappeared, a sublime rose opened. She was beautiful and more beautiful than the others, so the poet cultivated with all his love every day, that beautiful flower, that reminded so much of his eternal love. - Tiago Amaral