Nunca chorarei por ti. E se mesmo assim alguma água - que não reflexo desse rio comum - for por aí além de mim,essa traição líquida não será por ti. Será por essa ideia de mim, sem ti. E até nisso és aquilo que sempre esperaremos de ti: também não é por mim. Eu estou bem. Não irei aí pelo Natal, mas estou bem. Também nunca será por mim que eu chorarei. É por nós. Nós os do problema e da cara da pessoa viva. Nós sem ti. Prometo-te. Nunca me faltarás. Estou a sorrir, o meu pensamento dança no tablado. E tu sabes o que a dança faz a um pensamento, por mais triste que ele possa ser. A única coisa que me chateia, e chateia-me tão profundamente que sou quase capaz de estragar a bucólica respiração deste post, praguejando, é que tu não tivesses sido capaz de esperar por nós e fazeres como fazem milhares de milhares: irem-se de velhos, de velhice. Cumprindo essoutra promessa de esplanadarmos até ao cair da noite, da gota, do reumático. Eu disse-te uma vez que esse meu estranho hábito de tentar ver em cada pessoa a criança que foi, os traços, a fisionomia, o riso fácil e intempestivo, só tinha uma excepção, tu, os teus cabelos brancos, o teu ar sereno, a tua vontade de permaneceres.
1 comentário:
Um poema, de uma iraniana - Forugh Farrokhzad - que morreu antes que os cabelos lhe enbranquecessem. Para a Cláudia, para o César, para a Zé mas também para todos vocês, amigos, que têm sabido viver intensamente os encontros que a vida nos proporciou.
Another Birth
My whole being is a dark chant
which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming
in this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.
Life is perhaps
a long street through which a woman holding
a basket passes every day
Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.
Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .
Life is perhaps that enclosed moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
which I will put into the Moon's impression
and the Night's perception.
In a room as big as loneliness
my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.
Ah
this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.
I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.
I shall wear
a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in love with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.
There is an alley
which my heart has stolen
from the streets of my childhood.
The journey of a form along the line of time
inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror
And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.
No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook
which empties into a pool.
I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.
Enviar um comentário