Yo a veces escribo en inglés, y antes de que me
preguntes: '¿por qué en inglés?' te lo contesto: porque quiero.
Lala Mártin is a freelance photographer based
in Buenos Aires. Born in 1984, you can see some of her works hanging on
different walls all over the world, magazines, advertisements, fashion
portfolios and cd covers.
All images featured
here are copyrighted as Lala Mártin Photography official material. Do not use
without permission. If you want to request prints, please
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Sunday, June 28, 2009
You’re arriving just in time, in this world, in this place You’re bringing your tune, the magic of your eyes, The minutes you’re willing to waste Talking to me, being who you are Breathing my air, filling my head with your gasps. I need you to feel more than welcome, I need to make sure that you’ve come just in time.
Would you please stop screaming, woman? I’ll focus on my apprehension more easily then. Go get me a brand new cup of tea, Pour me inside of it. I want to be celestial just for one night. Oh woman, you bleed in my ears, You’re just the ashes of a wounded satellite But I’m too far gone, I’m drowning in your warm infusion. Let your sounds become harmony, I need some calm tonight, I need to face a sudden August in the middle of an autumn night. There’s a lovely breeze coming from the river There’s a lovely view inside your arms tonight – I’m half a girl melting in Uranus And your screaming only tells me That he’s not by my side.
You painted me cyan, Pale both my chicks, In the centre of the magazine there’s a lady covered in red – She plays the myth, In the coral moon I recognize the time, from some other time, A basis in the music in the sound In the room All in need Tangled in an old, dirty curtain Maybe someone’s screaming tonight, I think the lady in the magazine knows this fiction very well, She has such a pretty smile, Half broken but still half alive, You’re air inside this burning balloon, I once wished for a world inside a bottle, I made it clear, but I couldn’t make it crystal, Like half the words of ‘Hollywood’ Or maybe a cup of tea that has grown cold. It’s the time, you swear, These are the veins.
I once turned all yellow But still held my spring inside my ink pot. You whispered some lovely words back then, I’m pretty much sure it rained all afternoon Those grey clouds, You know exactly what I think about them Yet you stayed, I remember But still I could never look a butterfly in the eye She is bleeding me pure, Like a gentle caress that falls down to the ground In a direction I wish I could follow But instead I’m so ambivalent, You see me disappear like dew drops in the grass And then the morning always comes, Sometimes it’s just so damn much obsolete Sometimes you get just so damn solemn, If I crack it’s for you only And if I pray it’s for you solely But I’m all cyan Pale are both my chicks And that rag doll won’t talk to me anymore And you know this street; you’ve lived here for quite some time Still I can’t understand How can it be so naïve To find your soul trying to escape through your window And migrate to somewhere else.
The lady came from Asia, She had some pretty nice legs Her spirit was all cyan, just like her umbrella. Something tells me she never read a newspaper in her whole life. Yet she seems so alive, And she walks so carelessly I may be flying home but believe me, It won’t happen tomorrow. It’s the weather, I swear, You know These are the veins.