'Corria el fuego, en todo su abrazo quedaban atrapados los hilos del tiempo, con el silbido de la brisa se entendian sus burlonas lenguas, canturreando nombres perdidos.'
Hay caminos en las sombras que llevan a puertas abiertas de par en par. En el empedrado se refleja la muesca de un llanto y si miras hacia atras cuando suena la cuarta campanada atisbaras los monjes del invierno. Si recuerdas a tus padres en el sonido de la leña y te persignas tres veces se abriran las bocas de los muertos pero como no aferres la moneda de tus señores te perderas en esas viejas tumbas. Hay nieve en el cayado del mendigo de manos largas, nunca te niegues si te pregunta que piedras has pisado. Toca tus labios si ves un amor roto, el quebrado corazon es peor fantasma que todos los demonios, y si es a ti a quien busca, nunca olvides las ramas del roble. Tiran carbon las viejas y los ladrones, asi nunca los alcanzaran los malos sueños y los remordimientos.
Cuidate de las encrucijadas, jamas llegues alli sin un nombre.
Y cuando en la noche de las noches, con su hoz y su mentira, la muerte ande callando llantos, cierra los ojos y cuenta tu vida. A todos les gusta una buena cancion.
lunes, 28 de febrero de 2011
El tintero #1
Reposaba adormilado en la vieja mesa de mi padre. Los papeles a medio acribillar sentenciaban historias poco creibles, nobles sinrazones que iban de aqui para alla. Todo el mundo adormilado en prosas de fantasia y miedo. Temblaba entre mis dedos el recuerdo de como nacian aquellas narraciones, como el humo se perdia y en el cielo despejado del cuarto, paisajes remotos, cancinos pozos y fieras tragedias entrelazaban los caminos que jamas visitaria. Eran alas quebradas, que recordaban el viento pero no podian encontrarlo jamas.
¿Te has dado cuenta de como duelen las historias hermosas?
Despabilan tu mente y permiten a tus ojos mirar mas alla, pero cuando regresas, te enfrentas a un corazon cansado que no encuentra razon para permanecer. Te escapas en esos tejados imaginarios, sus estelas grises son un grito muy ahogado. Rebulle la sangre en tus venas pero todo termina en un sueño. Alli donde terminan las historias, termina lo unico bello en esta vida.
¿Te has dado cuenta de como duelen las historias hermosas?
Despabilan tu mente y permiten a tus ojos mirar mas alla, pero cuando regresas, te enfrentas a un corazon cansado que no encuentra razon para permanecer. Te escapas en esos tejados imaginarios, sus estelas grises son un grito muy ahogado. Rebulle la sangre en tus venas pero todo termina en un sueño. Alli donde terminan las historias, termina lo unico bello en esta vida.
domingo, 6 de febrero de 2011
Traitor's Resort #1
'What maddening course has taken this travel!'.-Moaned the lowsy would-be soldier, glearing past his shoulder to find the low caverns and looming walls of the valley.
The road ahead of 'em was an old one, already taken to the greave, massive block-stones forming a broken pathway and the abandoned signs of once-great cities. Everything in the desolate landscape was making 'em wish for home, a warm home, even when most of the mercenaries knew only the thrill of death for home was none, friends only to the sword, an oath to defy death every day, to challenge the winds of routine as they were a crazed lot, indeed, not the common folks of fields and low bargains for the price of corn. They coin was blood, an awful lot of blood. But now? Now the nervous grin on everybody made 'em forget of the must grievous of debts, betrayals and revenge. Even when the sage's pay was good and constant, even when the dangers to be were not so much something may 'em all uneasy, constantly picking on each other, calling the cowardness of other warbands and boasting on past victories.
'Silence, you chattering house-wives!.- Shouted Ruffus Volkung, the northlander Master of Arms.
'You make wish to be as soon as dead, would you stop your tongue before my blade does so?'.-
The pack of hardened men could only take advise of the threath, Volkung was know to be a bloody murderer, even if an educated one.
After they shut their mouths, the tall man walked up to the sage.
'How much 'till we catch glimpse of Traveler's Silver?'.- He asked.
The old man looked at him like a distant eagle watches his roaming prey, down there in the dirt.
'As much as we need to, the are works of foul nature here, i cannot abide to be distracted as i fought back the dark omens of the seers'.- Answered him, looking back to the little letters on his book.
Deep inside there was a voice, an angry voice that had a sound of time, of mourn, of corruption. He knew it too well to let himself rest, he could not let the fight take the best of him 'cause of some minor distraction. The poison was already in the wineskin of the warriors, even thought if first acted as a powerfurl sedative, within days their minds would be so weakened, so uncapable of rational thought that they would obey every word mustered with autority and power. Soon, the sage could have the right sacrifices to cast the demon out of his body.
The road ahead of 'em was an old one, already taken to the greave, massive block-stones forming a broken pathway and the abandoned signs of once-great cities. Everything in the desolate landscape was making 'em wish for home, a warm home, even when most of the mercenaries knew only the thrill of death for home was none, friends only to the sword, an oath to defy death every day, to challenge the winds of routine as they were a crazed lot, indeed, not the common folks of fields and low bargains for the price of corn. They coin was blood, an awful lot of blood. But now? Now the nervous grin on everybody made 'em forget of the must grievous of debts, betrayals and revenge. Even when the sage's pay was good and constant, even when the dangers to be were not so much something may 'em all uneasy, constantly picking on each other, calling the cowardness of other warbands and boasting on past victories.
'Silence, you chattering house-wives!.- Shouted Ruffus Volkung, the northlander Master of Arms.
'You make wish to be as soon as dead, would you stop your tongue before my blade does so?'.-
The pack of hardened men could only take advise of the threath, Volkung was know to be a bloody murderer, even if an educated one.
After they shut their mouths, the tall man walked up to the sage.
'How much 'till we catch glimpse of Traveler's Silver?'.- He asked.
The old man looked at him like a distant eagle watches his roaming prey, down there in the dirt.
'As much as we need to, the are works of foul nature here, i cannot abide to be distracted as i fought back the dark omens of the seers'.- Answered him, looking back to the little letters on his book.
Deep inside there was a voice, an angry voice that had a sound of time, of mourn, of corruption. He knew it too well to let himself rest, he could not let the fight take the best of him 'cause of some minor distraction. The poison was already in the wineskin of the warriors, even thought if first acted as a powerfurl sedative, within days their minds would be so weakened, so uncapable of rational thought that they would obey every word mustered with autority and power. Soon, the sage could have the right sacrifices to cast the demon out of his body.
Ablaze #1
He loathed the storm, winds of great strenght assaulted the stronghold, windows barred heavily to avoid the erruption of rain into the inner chambers, and yet he knew it was that same storm that managed to keep their assailants at bay. The ever-distant gnawing of the mountain heart, the clashing of blades and hammers on the though cavern walls let everybody know of the future to come. But now, oh, powers that be!, only the voice of the furious storm could be heard.
Taking a peek with the spyglass, the great road ahead of the city-fort showed signs of past battles, many corpse were still there, half-decomposed, home to the conquering worms, their presence took great tolls in the morals of his companion, such dreared sight of death and decay could overtake the must stern of warriors.
As he was to walk away from the vigil tower he saw a figure of mad approach, hands shaking panicly, legs sttutering to keep the pace of the body, the hooded face made him uneasy, not sure why, he shouted an alarm to the nearest guarding marksman.
Keep your marks on the walker!.- He shouted.
'Too late'.- Whispered a soft and distant voice inside his head.- 'Just too late'.
The fire became triumphant, the drops of water pouring from the sky could do nothing to stop de sorcerous flames as they loomed all over the fort. The walls now falling as if time hath come too soon, eroded as if ages stroke 'em in a second. The stranger walked among this ruins, ever grateful to be the bane of his enemies, blessed by the Old Ones to conquer all who opossed him and his warlord, the firelord Morgrim Thornhammer.
Taking a peek with the spyglass, the great road ahead of the city-fort showed signs of past battles, many corpse were still there, half-decomposed, home to the conquering worms, their presence took great tolls in the morals of his companion, such dreared sight of death and decay could overtake the must stern of warriors.
As he was to walk away from the vigil tower he saw a figure of mad approach, hands shaking panicly, legs sttutering to keep the pace of the body, the hooded face made him uneasy, not sure why, he shouted an alarm to the nearest guarding marksman.
Keep your marks on the walker!.- He shouted.
'Too late'.- Whispered a soft and distant voice inside his head.- 'Just too late'.
The fire became triumphant, the drops of water pouring from the sky could do nothing to stop de sorcerous flames as they loomed all over the fort. The walls now falling as if time hath come too soon, eroded as if ages stroke 'em in a second. The stranger walked among this ruins, ever grateful to be the bane of his enemies, blessed by the Old Ones to conquer all who opossed him and his warlord, the firelord Morgrim Thornhammer.
All words atuned #1
All things measured, things done and things to come; all fires, all ashes; things found and things lost inside your mind. Feeble tales of death and conquering, of words inward, of time unrelenting, time flowing and time halted. I've seen them, felt 'em, upon weary bones of old guardians, the must humble of all beholders. I am, as i was, and i felt chaos fell upon chaos, blood ran as rivers come, things of must hideous nature breathing alive in flesh and sin.
I have a tale to tell, of winter's breath and the end of the world. Of silhouettes agains the wall, of dancers in the mist, all come, all gone now. All i ask of you, it's to peer into my chants, to behave, oh little lamb, be docile in my reach for i too can be your doom.
I have a tale to tell, of winter's breath and the end of the world. Of silhouettes agains the wall, of dancers in the mist, all come, all gone now. All i ask of you, it's to peer into my chants, to behave, oh little lamb, be docile in my reach for i too can be your doom.
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