era sexta-feira 13…


Foi há precisamente 39 anos, exactamente numa tenebrosa sexta-feira 13:



Still falls the rain, the veils
of darkness shroud the blackened trees, which contorted by some unseen
violence, shed their tired leaves, and bend their boughs towards a grey
earth of severed bird wings. among the grasses, poppies bleed before a
gesticulating death, and young rabbits, born dead in traps, stand
motionless, as though guarding the silence that surrounds and threatens
to engulf all those that would listen. Mute birds, tired of repeating
yesterdays terrors, huddle together in the recesses of dark corners,
heads turned from the dead, black swan that floats upturned in a small
pool in the hollow. there emerges from this pool a faint sensual mist,
that traces its way upwards to caress the chipped feet of the headless
martyr’s statue, whose only achievement was to die to soon, and who
couldn’t wait to lose. the cataract of darkness form fully, the long
black night begins, yet still, by the lake a young girl waits, unseeing
she believes herself unseen, she smiles, faintly at the distant tolling
bell, and the still falling rain.




…and the still falling rain:





Foram vocês que me trouxeram ao mundo da música a sério.

Obrigado bastante.

Obrigado Iommi, Ossie, Geezer e Bill Ward

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