nas horas das cigarras
as dores viram-se
nas costas
latentes, inertes
ao despertar de um velho dia

o som dos sons que a horas deita
dormem santas na alegoria
das janelas
dess'alma espreita
qual a cor que lhes poria?

ouço pássaros a debitar
os decibéis de um sol que luz
lhes deita
ouço
um piano perto no sofá
que traz
a tua boca doce e só
de um trago cai e alumia.

11.11.2012

Esperançoso poema.

Em cada fruto a morte amadurece

deixando inteira, por legado,

uma semente virgem que estremece

logo que o vento a tenha desnudado.


in As Mãos e os Frutos (XXXV)
Eugénio de Andrade

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

e.e.cummings