segunda-feira, 30 de setembro de 2013
coisas (literalmente) simples
«There are women who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and to take your pleasure of them; but this one fills you only with the desire to die slowly beneath her gaze.»
Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire
sábado, 28 de setembro de 2013
amor, coisas simples & até sempre
É por Ti que Vivo
Amo o teu túmido candor de astro
a tua pura integridade delicada
a tua permanente adolescência de segredo
a tua fragilidade acesa sempre altiva
Por ti eu sou a leve segurança
de um peito que pulsa e canta a sua chama
que se levanta e inclina ao teu hálito de pássaro
ou à chuva das tuas pétalas de prata
Se guardo algum tesouro não o prendo
porque quero oferecer-te a paz de um sonho aberto
que dure e flua nas tuas veias lentas
e seja um perfume ou um beijo um suspiro solar
Ofereço-te esta frágil flor esta pedra de chuva
para que sintas a verde frescura
de um pomar de brancas cortesias
porque é por ti que vivo é por ti que nasço
porque amo o ouro vivo do teu rosto
António Ramos Rosa, O Teu Rosto
Amo o teu túmido candor de astro
a tua pura integridade delicada
a tua permanente adolescência de segredo
a tua fragilidade acesa sempre altiva
Por ti eu sou a leve segurança
de um peito que pulsa e canta a sua chama
que se levanta e inclina ao teu hálito de pássaro
ou à chuva das tuas pétalas de prata
Se guardo algum tesouro não o prendo
porque quero oferecer-te a paz de um sonho aberto
que dure e flua nas tuas veias lentas
e seja um perfume ou um beijo um suspiro solar
Ofereço-te esta frágil flor esta pedra de chuva
para que sintas a verde frescura
de um pomar de brancas cortesias
porque é por ti que vivo é por ti que nasço
porque amo o ouro vivo do teu rosto
António Ramos Rosa, O Teu Rosto
sexta-feira, 20 de setembro de 2013
lambarices
Se houvesse degraus na terra...
Se houvesse degraus na terra e tivesse anéis o céu,
eu subiria os degraus e aos anéis me prenderia.
No céu podia tecer uma nuvem toda negra.
E que nevasse, e chovesse, e houvesse luz nas montanhas,
e à porta do meu amor o ouro se acumulasse.
Beijei uma boca vermelha e a minha boca tingiu-se,
levei um lenço à boca e o lenço fez-se vermelho.
Fui lavá-lo na ribeira e a água tornou-se rubra,
e a fímbria do mar, e o meio do mar,
e vermelhas se volveram as asas da águia
que desceu para beber,
e metade do sol e a lua inteira se tornaram vermelhas.
Maldito seja quem atirou uma maçã para o outro mundo.
Uma maçã, uma mantilha de ouro e uma espada de prata.
Correram os rapazes à procura da espada,
e as raparigas correram à procura da mantilha,
e correram, correram as crianças à procura da maçã.
Herberto Helder
Se houvesse degraus na terra e tivesse anéis o céu,
eu subiria os degraus e aos anéis me prenderia.
No céu podia tecer uma nuvem toda negra.
E que nevasse, e chovesse, e houvesse luz nas montanhas,
e à porta do meu amor o ouro se acumulasse.
Beijei uma boca vermelha e a minha boca tingiu-se,
levei um lenço à boca e o lenço fez-se vermelho.
Fui lavá-lo na ribeira e a água tornou-se rubra,
e a fímbria do mar, e o meio do mar,
e vermelhas se volveram as asas da águia
que desceu para beber,
e metade do sol e a lua inteira se tornaram vermelhas.
Maldito seja quem atirou uma maçã para o outro mundo.
Uma maçã, uma mantilha de ouro e uma espada de prata.
Correram os rapazes à procura da espada,
e as raparigas correram à procura da mantilha,
e correram, correram as crianças à procura da maçã.
Herberto Helder
Soon...
Nymphomaniac appetizer - Chapter 1: The Compleat Angler
Nymphomaniac appetizer - Chapter 2: Jerôme
Nymphomaniac appetizer - Chapter 3: Mrs. H
frases que tinham tudo para dar certo
"Apanho aí pelas sete horas."
O Zé, a propósito da encomenda de um bolo.
O Zé, a propósito da encomenda de um bolo.
quinta-feira, 19 de setembro de 2013
serenidades
Serenamente
Aqui serenamente
sou feliz
sem qualquer memória do passado
sem qualquer cansaço
mascarado
ou trevas que encubram
qualquer escombro
aqui tudo o que há
é reencontro
de ti tudo o que vem
é quente e súbito
da tua voz
amor
do nosso encontro único
Maria Teresa Horta
Poesia Reunida
Aqui serenamente
sou feliz
sem qualquer memória do passado
sem qualquer cansaço
mascarado
ou trevas que encubram
qualquer escombro
aqui tudo o que há
é reencontro
de ti tudo o que vem
é quente e súbito
da tua voz
amor
do nosso encontro único
Maria Teresa Horta
Poesia Reunida
quarta-feira, 18 de setembro de 2013
amor & coisas simples
Fonte - I
Ela é a fonte. Eu posso saber que é
a grande fonte
em que todos pensaram. Quando no campo
se procurava o trevo, ou em silêncio
se esperava a noite,
ou se ouvia algures na paz da terra
o urdir do tempo ---
cada um pensava na fonte. Era um manar
secreto e pacífico.
Uma coisa milagrosa que acontecia
ocultamente.
Ninguém falava dela, porque
era imensa. Mas todos a sabiam
como a teta. Como o odre.
Algo sorria dentro de nós.
Minhas irmãs faziam-se mulheres
suavemente. Meu pai lia.
Sorria dentro de mim uma aceitação
do trevo, uma descoberta muito casta.
Era a fonte.
Eu amava-a dolorosa e tranquilamente.
A lua formava-se
com uma ponta subtil de ferocidade,
e a maçã tomava um princípio
de esplendor.
Hoje o sexo desenhou-se. O pensamento
perdeu-se e renasceu.
Hoje sei permanentemente que ela
é a fonte.
Herberto Helder
Ela é a fonte. Eu posso saber que é
a grande fonte
em que todos pensaram. Quando no campo
se procurava o trevo, ou em silêncio
se esperava a noite,
ou se ouvia algures na paz da terra
o urdir do tempo ---
cada um pensava na fonte. Era um manar
secreto e pacífico.
Uma coisa milagrosa que acontecia
ocultamente.
Ninguém falava dela, porque
era imensa. Mas todos a sabiam
como a teta. Como o odre.
Algo sorria dentro de nós.
Minhas irmãs faziam-se mulheres
suavemente. Meu pai lia.
Sorria dentro de mim uma aceitação
do trevo, uma descoberta muito casta.
Era a fonte.
Eu amava-a dolorosa e tranquilamente.
A lua formava-se
com uma ponta subtil de ferocidade,
e a maçã tomava um princípio
de esplendor.
Hoje o sexo desenhou-se. O pensamento
perdeu-se e renasceu.
Hoje sei permanentemente que ela
é a fonte.
Herberto Helder
terça-feira, 17 de setembro de 2013
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amor & coisas simples
«I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.»
Margaret Atwood
Margaret Atwood
segunda-feira, 16 de setembro de 2013
coisas simples
I'll tell you something I believe is true
Happiness is me and you
Gilbert O'Sullivan - Happiness Is Me And You
enquadramentos
Every mouth you’ve ever kissed was just practice. All the bodies you’ve ever undressed and ploughed in to were preparing you for me. I don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth.
Was it a long journey? Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now, welcome home.
Warsan Shire
Was it a long journey? Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now, welcome home.
Warsan Shire
sexta-feira, 13 de setembro de 2013
vem outono, estás perdoado
Uma emergência de Outono
As cores da maçã assada aberta
pelo fim do verão antecipam no palato
uma emergência de outono.
Convida a ficar por casa
esta maçã que feri e salpiquei pelo torso
com cézannes de canela.
Sob a epiderme tisnada (cor
amarelo-pecado) é
perene o seu sabor. Vê só
como jazem nuas
suas vestes pelo prato
(qual roupa de rapariga desbragada
pelo chão).
João Luís Barreto Guimarães
A Parte pelo Todo, 2009
As cores da maçã assada aberta
pelo fim do verão antecipam no palato
uma emergência de outono.
Convida a ficar por casa
esta maçã que feri e salpiquei pelo torso
com cézannes de canela.
Sob a epiderme tisnada (cor
amarelo-pecado) é
perene o seu sabor. Vê só
como jazem nuas
suas vestes pelo prato
(qual roupa de rapariga desbragada
pelo chão).
João Luís Barreto Guimarães
A Parte pelo Todo, 2009
quinta-feira, 12 de setembro de 2013
amor & coisas simples
«I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mouth and pull you to me and say ‘I love you I love you I love you’. I want you so bad it stings.»
Bret Easton Ellis
Bret Easton Ellis
quarta-feira, 11 de setembro de 2013
terça-feira, 10 de setembro de 2013
lambarices
Mais um reencontro, tão ao gosto Malomil. Esta fotografia mostra várias crianças na Disneylândia, uma imagem igual a milhões de outras. Destaca-se, porém, por um facto singelo: à frente, uma das raparigas é Donna. Atrás, num carrinho de bebés, Alex. Viviam em países diferentes, nem sequer se conheceram na ocasião. Muitos anos depois, encontraram-se e casaram. E, um dia, ao verem esta imagem, descobriram que haviam estado juntos, à mesma hora, no mesmo lugar. Pura coincidência, nada de especial, um fruto do acaso. Apenas mais uma história pequenina, vinda do Canadá.
Aqui
Aqui
segunda-feira, 9 de setembro de 2013
o que é lamechas, é bom
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away
Andrew Jackson Jihad - Black Dog (You Are My Sunshine)
pertinências
«Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.»
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, John Hughes, 1986.
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, John Hughes, 1986.
sexta-feira, 6 de setembro de 2013
dos 30 (que podiam muito bem ser 28)
Self-Portrait At 28
I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think "at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand"
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.
It is a certain hill
the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill"
and if the apocalypse turns out
to be a world-wide nervous breakdown
if our five billion minds collapse at once
well I'd call that a surprise ending
and this hill would still be beautiful
a place I wouldn't mind dying
alone or with you.
I am trying to get at something
and I want to talk very plainly to you
so that we are both comforted by the honesty.
You see there is a window by my desk
I stare out when I am stuck
though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write
and I don't know why I keep staring at it.
My childhood hasn't made good material either
mostly being a mulch of white minutes
with a few stand out moments,
popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer
a certain amount of pride at school
everytime they called it "our sun"
and playing football when the only play
was "go out long" are what stand out now.
If squeezed for more information
I can remember old clock radios
with flipping metal numbers
and an entree called Surf and Turf.
As a way of getting in touch with my origins
every night I set the alarm clock
for the time I was born so that waking up
becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like
when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn
the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it.
II two
I can't remember being born
and no one else can remember it either
even the doctor who I met years later
at a cocktail party.
It's one of the little disappointments
that makes you think about getting away
going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables
and taking a room on the square
with a landlady whose hands are scored
by disinfectant, telling the people you meet
that you are from Alaska, and listen
to what they have to say about Alaska
until you have learned much more about Alaska
than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables.
Sometimes I am buying a newspaper
in a strange city and think
"I am about to learn what it's like to live here."
Oftentimes there is a news item
about the complaints of homeowners
who live beside the airport
and I realize that I read an article
on this subject nearly once a year
and always receive the same image.
I am in bed late at night
in my house near the airport
listening to the jets fly overhead
a strange wife sleeping beside me.
In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation
of various cold medicine commercial sets
(there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand).
I know these recurring news articles are clues,
flaws in the design though I haven't figured out
how to string them together yet,
but I've begun to notice that the same people
are dying over and over again,
for instance Minnie Pearl
who died this year
for the fourth time in four years.
III three
Today is the first day of Lent
and once again I'm not really sure what it is.
How many more years will I let pass
before I take the trouble to ask someone?
It reminds of this morning
when you were getting ready for work.
I was sitting by the space heater
numbly watching you dress
and when you asked why I never wear a robe
I had so many good reasons
I didn't know where to begin.
If you were cool in high school
you didn't ask too many questions.
You could tell who'd been to last night's
big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn't have to ask
and that's what cool was:
the ability to deduct
to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness
means not asking when you don't know,
which is why kids grow ever more stupid.
A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises
to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness
of a teenager's promise. Not like I'm dying
for a letter from the class stoner
ten years on but...
Do you remember the way the girls
would call out "love you!"
conveniently leaving out the "I"
as if they didn't want to commit
to their own declarations.
I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept
and hope you won't get uncomfortable
if I should go into some deeper stuff here.
IV four
There are things I've given up on
like recording funny answering machine messages.
It's part of growing older
and the human race as a group
has matured along the same lines.
It seems our comedy dates the quickest.
If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes
I hope you won't be insulted
if I say you're trying too hard.
Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live
seem slow-witted and obvious now.
It's just that our advances are irrepressible.
Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands.
It makes people too self-conscious about the past,
though try explaining that to a kid.
I'm not saying it should be this way.
All this new technology
will eventually give us new feelings
that will never completely displace the old ones
leaving everyone feeling quite nervous
and split in two.
We will travel to Mars
even as folks on Earth
are still ripping open potato chip
bags with their teeth.
Why? I don't have the time or intelligence
to make all the connections
like my friend Gordon
(this is a true story)
who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts
and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree
until I brought it up.
He'd never broken the name down to its parts.
By then it was too late.
He had moved to Coral Gables.
V five
The hill out my window is still looking beautiful
suffused in a kind of gold national park light
and it seems to say,
I'm sorry the world could not possibly
use another poem about Orpheus
but I'm available if you're not working
on a self-portrait or anything.
I'm watching my dog have nightmares,
twitching and whining on the office floor
and I try to imagine what beast
has cornered him in the meadow
where his dreams are set.
I'm just letting the day be what it is:
a place for a large number of things
to gather and interact --
not even a place but an occasion
a reality for real things.
Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic
or religious with this piece:
"They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic
or religious," but these are valid topics
and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor
possibly dreaming of me
that part of me that would beat a dog
for no good reason
no reason that a dog could see.
I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don't disfigure it
and if it turns out that what I say is untrue
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one.
VI
I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories,
many of them having blended with sentimental
telephone and margarine commercials
plainly ruined by Madison Avenue
though no one seems to call the advertising world
"Madison Avenue" anymore. Have they moved?
Let's get an update on this.
But first I have some business to take care of.
I walked out to the hill behind our house
which looks positively Alaskan today
and it would be easier to explain this
if I had a picture to show you
but I was with our young dog
and he was running through the tall grass
like running through the tall grass
is all of life together
until a bird calls or he finds a beer can
and that thing fills all the space in his head.
You see,
his mind can only hold one thought at a time
and when he finally hears me call his name
he looks up and cocks his head
and for a single moment
my voice is everything:
Self-portrait at 28.
David Berman
I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think "at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand"
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.
It is a certain hill
the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill"
and if the apocalypse turns out
to be a world-wide nervous breakdown
if our five billion minds collapse at once
well I'd call that a surprise ending
and this hill would still be beautiful
a place I wouldn't mind dying
alone or with you.
I am trying to get at something
and I want to talk very plainly to you
so that we are both comforted by the honesty.
You see there is a window by my desk
I stare out when I am stuck
though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write
and I don't know why I keep staring at it.
My childhood hasn't made good material either
mostly being a mulch of white minutes
with a few stand out moments,
popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer
a certain amount of pride at school
everytime they called it "our sun"
and playing football when the only play
was "go out long" are what stand out now.
If squeezed for more information
I can remember old clock radios
with flipping metal numbers
and an entree called Surf and Turf.
As a way of getting in touch with my origins
every night I set the alarm clock
for the time I was born so that waking up
becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like
when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn
the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it.
II two
I can't remember being born
and no one else can remember it either
even the doctor who I met years later
at a cocktail party.
It's one of the little disappointments
that makes you think about getting away
going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables
and taking a room on the square
with a landlady whose hands are scored
by disinfectant, telling the people you meet
that you are from Alaska, and listen
to what they have to say about Alaska
until you have learned much more about Alaska
than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables.
Sometimes I am buying a newspaper
in a strange city and think
"I am about to learn what it's like to live here."
Oftentimes there is a news item
about the complaints of homeowners
who live beside the airport
and I realize that I read an article
on this subject nearly once a year
and always receive the same image.
I am in bed late at night
in my house near the airport
listening to the jets fly overhead
a strange wife sleeping beside me.
In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation
of various cold medicine commercial sets
(there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand).
I know these recurring news articles are clues,
flaws in the design though I haven't figured out
how to string them together yet,
but I've begun to notice that the same people
are dying over and over again,
for instance Minnie Pearl
who died this year
for the fourth time in four years.
III three
Today is the first day of Lent
and once again I'm not really sure what it is.
How many more years will I let pass
before I take the trouble to ask someone?
It reminds of this morning
when you were getting ready for work.
I was sitting by the space heater
numbly watching you dress
and when you asked why I never wear a robe
I had so many good reasons
I didn't know where to begin.
If you were cool in high school
you didn't ask too many questions.
You could tell who'd been to last night's
big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn't have to ask
and that's what cool was:
the ability to deduct
to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness
means not asking when you don't know,
which is why kids grow ever more stupid.
A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises
to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness
of a teenager's promise. Not like I'm dying
for a letter from the class stoner
ten years on but...
Do you remember the way the girls
would call out "love you!"
conveniently leaving out the "I"
as if they didn't want to commit
to their own declarations.
I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept
and hope you won't get uncomfortable
if I should go into some deeper stuff here.
IV four
There are things I've given up on
like recording funny answering machine messages.
It's part of growing older
and the human race as a group
has matured along the same lines.
It seems our comedy dates the quickest.
If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes
I hope you won't be insulted
if I say you're trying too hard.
Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live
seem slow-witted and obvious now.
It's just that our advances are irrepressible.
Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands.
It makes people too self-conscious about the past,
though try explaining that to a kid.
I'm not saying it should be this way.
All this new technology
will eventually give us new feelings
that will never completely displace the old ones
leaving everyone feeling quite nervous
and split in two.
We will travel to Mars
even as folks on Earth
are still ripping open potato chip
bags with their teeth.
Why? I don't have the time or intelligence
to make all the connections
like my friend Gordon
(this is a true story)
who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts
and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree
until I brought it up.
He'd never broken the name down to its parts.
By then it was too late.
He had moved to Coral Gables.
V five
The hill out my window is still looking beautiful
suffused in a kind of gold national park light
and it seems to say,
I'm sorry the world could not possibly
use another poem about Orpheus
but I'm available if you're not working
on a self-portrait or anything.
I'm watching my dog have nightmares,
twitching and whining on the office floor
and I try to imagine what beast
has cornered him in the meadow
where his dreams are set.
I'm just letting the day be what it is:
a place for a large number of things
to gather and interact --
not even a place but an occasion
a reality for real things.
Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic
or religious with this piece:
"They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic
or religious," but these are valid topics
and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor
possibly dreaming of me
that part of me that would beat a dog
for no good reason
no reason that a dog could see.
I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don't disfigure it
and if it turns out that what I say is untrue
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one.
VI
I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories,
many of them having blended with sentimental
telephone and margarine commercials
plainly ruined by Madison Avenue
though no one seems to call the advertising world
"Madison Avenue" anymore. Have they moved?
Let's get an update on this.
But first I have some business to take care of.
I walked out to the hill behind our house
which looks positively Alaskan today
and it would be easier to explain this
if I had a picture to show you
but I was with our young dog
and he was running through the tall grass
like running through the tall grass
is all of life together
until a bird calls or he finds a beer can
and that thing fills all the space in his head.
You see,
his mind can only hold one thought at a time
and when he finally hears me call his name
he looks up and cocks his head
and for a single moment
my voice is everything:
Self-portrait at 28.
David Berman
quinta-feira, 5 de setembro de 2013
Festas do Avante
Centralismo
Porto-me às vezes como uma espécie de PC. Até chegar à decisão definitiva sou um partido comunista heterodoxo, pós-soviético, angustiado, indeciso, mudo em vão as siglas e os símbolos, discuto «o nome» e «a coisa», e o nexo que há entre «coisa» e «nome», hesito, adio, procrastino. Depois, tomo uma decisão e transformo-me em partido comunista à moda antiga, ortodoxo, estalinista, aplico com dureza o «centralismo democrático», há uma decisão, está decidido, não há arrependimentos, mudanças de rumo, estados de alma. Quem discorda, que discordasse antes; agora é tarde para discussões.
Mestre, no "novo" blog.
Porto-me às vezes como uma espécie de PC. Até chegar à decisão definitiva sou um partido comunista heterodoxo, pós-soviético, angustiado, indeciso, mudo em vão as siglas e os símbolos, discuto «o nome» e «a coisa», e o nexo que há entre «coisa» e «nome», hesito, adio, procrastino. Depois, tomo uma decisão e transformo-me em partido comunista à moda antiga, ortodoxo, estalinista, aplico com dureza o «centralismo democrático», há uma decisão, está decidido, não há arrependimentos, mudanças de rumo, estados de alma. Quem discorda, que discordasse antes; agora é tarde para discussões.
Mestre, no "novo" blog.
quarta-feira, 4 de setembro de 2013
terça-feira, 3 de setembro de 2013
coisas simples
«A memória mais forte que tenho dela é o toque dos seus dedos. Foi com ela que aprendi que a compatibilidade entre duas pessoas pode ser o toque, muito mais do que a voz, a semântica ou o cheiro. Ou melhor, os toques todos. Aqueles que acontecem quando se dá a mão na fila do supermercado e se discute o preço dos chocolates, mas também os outros, que nascem e morrem no segredo duma cama.
Por causa desses toques, caminhámos em silêncio durante uma parte importante da nossa vida, unidos pelos dedos. Uma vez parámos num pequeno café em Espanha, a caminho de lugar nenhum. Lembro-me das ruas desertas, do calor intenso e do estranho sabor agridoce na boca, logo pela manhã. Era ali que eu tinha prometido levá-la, para a devolver a casa depois daquele tempo que decidimos ser o nosso. Deu-me um abraço, estendeu-me a palma da mão esquerda no ar e colou a dela à minha. Ao afastá-la, brincámos com as pontas dos nossos dedos, como se todos os toques estivessem ali guardados.
Acho que ainda estão. Eu, pelo menos, ainda os sinto»
Bagaço Amarelo, aqui
Por causa desses toques, caminhámos em silêncio durante uma parte importante da nossa vida, unidos pelos dedos. Uma vez parámos num pequeno café em Espanha, a caminho de lugar nenhum. Lembro-me das ruas desertas, do calor intenso e do estranho sabor agridoce na boca, logo pela manhã. Era ali que eu tinha prometido levá-la, para a devolver a casa depois daquele tempo que decidimos ser o nosso. Deu-me um abraço, estendeu-me a palma da mão esquerda no ar e colou a dela à minha. Ao afastá-la, brincámos com as pontas dos nossos dedos, como se todos os toques estivessem ali guardados.
Acho que ainda estão. Eu, pelo menos, ainda os sinto»
Bagaço Amarelo, aqui
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