E vinham tempestades
                                voltavam brisas.
                                Chegavam vendavais
                                retornavam calmarias,
                                e as tormentas
                                eram bonanças ao regressar.

                                Só seu desencanto
                                num recanto, continuava nú.
                                A dor lhe  desdobrava a alma
                                numa valsa de cores
                                incolores.
                                Em odores.
                                Fantasias, doloridas,
                                tão reais.
                                Vividas no passado,
                                num futuro,
                                tão presentes.

                                E girava o moinho.
                                Girava o sol,
                                girando a vida.

                               Só sua alma,
                                calma,
                                sem pressa
                                assistia a festa,
                                de dores florida.