tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86479713529573346422024-03-13T11:28:46.408+00:00A Feira das Vaidadesvanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas (Ecc.1:2)vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comBlogger269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-11294938862893018842020-06-22T22:23:00.000+01:002020-06-22T22:23:58.317+01:00I am not resigned...I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground./<br />
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:<br />
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned<br />
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.<br />
<br />
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.<br />
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.<br />
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,<br />
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.<br />
<br />
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—<br />
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled<br />
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.<br />
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.<br />
<br />
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave<br />
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;<br />
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.<br />
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Dirge Without Music,” Edna St. Vincent Millayvi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-89434791902312875232019-01-06T16:02:00.003+00:002019-01-06T16:02:33.868+00:00Le souvenir de vous me tue<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_TdU0hglw9s" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-24538957022296295402018-12-14T22:36:00.001+00:002018-12-16T14:42:39.274+00:00Eu era outro e via-me a morrerEu era outro e via-me a morrer<br />
como a dormir se vê a sombra.<br />
Põe medo a morte dentro do coração<br />
e foge atrás de um espelho, e lá estou eu.<br />
Vejo a vida e a vontade de morrer:<br />
façam o que quiserem, mas usai-me!<br />
Chamai-me, chamai-me, não me deixes dormir,<br />
pois sinto que esqueço a minha história<br />
e me torno o homem do meu morrer...<br />
Amor que vem a mim da luz da lua,<br />
alegria de água que passa entre os vivos!<br />
<br />
Franco Loi<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DyDIhPF4_3g/XBZjaVs8tdI/AAAAAAAAIQc/U5OtjH7kh7AaR8bTG9vNBbv_HAYWnenXgCLcBGAs/s1600/skull_head5.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DyDIhPF4_3g/XBZjaVs8tdI/AAAAAAAAIQc/U5OtjH7kh7AaR8bTG9vNBbv_HAYWnenXgCLcBGAs/s320/skull_head5.gif" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://skull-heads.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Skull Heads</a> - Gerry Saunders</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-88723733409837987012018-12-05T11:54:00.005+00:002018-12-05T11:54:38.377+00:00O let me weep<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YNIs11_R9MI" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-86529872815648882552018-12-05T11:33:00.002+00:002018-12-05T11:38:14.129+00:00Son nata a lagrimar<span style="background-color: white; color: #0a0a0a; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Son nata a lagrimar /son nato a sospirar,
e il dolce mio conforto,
ah, sempre piangerò.
Se il fato ci tradì,
sereno e lieto dì
mai più sperar potrò.
I was born to weep /I was born to sigh,
And I shall forever mourn
My sweet consolation.
If fate has betrayed us,
I shall never again hope for
A serene or happy day.</i></span><br />
<br />
.
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QphL27yGbLo" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-90977114183084188142018-11-16T09:03:00.003+00:002018-11-16T09:04:15.073+00:00Epitáfio<br />
Eu um dia serei uma poalha de vento<br />
pousando inadvertidamente em tua face<br />
<br />
e me sacudirás<br />
<br />
Eu um dia serei uma réstea de chuva<br />
caída por acaso em tua fronte<br />
<br />
e me sacudirás<br />
<br />
E eu um dia serei a última lembrança<br />
imponderável já na tua mente<br />
<br />
e então me esquecerás<br />
<br />
<br />
Glória de Sant’Anna, Amaranto, <i>Poesia</i> <i>1951 – 1983</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8r31DFrFs5A" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-33796240595809754072018-11-09T15:44:00.003+00:002018-11-09T15:44:40.825+00:00Remember me<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ae1IUPHxFzs" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-90088559205806415102018-11-08T23:15:00.001+00:002018-11-08T23:15:58.468+00:00Estassão as semanas desoladas, sombrias<br />
em que na sua aridez a natureza<br />
rivaliza com a estupidez humana.<br />
<br />
O ano despenha-se na noite<br />
e o coração é um abismo<br />
mais fundo que a noite<br />
<br />
nesse vazio varrido pelo vento<br />
sem sol, sem lua nem estrelas<br />
apenas uma estranha luz do pensamento<br />
<br />
que lança um tenebroso fogo -<br />
rodando sobre si mesma até<br />
no frio incendiar-se<br />
<br />
e revelar ao homem algo que ele<br />
desconhece, não a solidão<br />
em si - não um espectro<br />
<br />
ainda que o pudesse abraçar - vazio,<br />
desespero - (gemendo<br />
soluçando) entre<br />
<br />
as chamas e os estrondos da guerra;<br />
casas em cujos aposentos<br />
o frio ultrapassa o imaginável,<br />
<br />
aqueles que se foram e que amávamos<br />
vazias as camas, húmidos os<br />
sofás, as cadeiras sem uso -<br />
<br />
Oculta-os algures<br />
longe do pensamento, deixa-os criar<br />
raízes e crescer, salvo de olhos e ouvidos<br />
<br />
ciosos - por si somente.<br />
A esta mina chegam para escavar - todos.<br />
Será isto o contraponto da música mais<br />
<br />
suave? A fonte da poesia que<br />
ao ver o relógio parado, diz:<br />
Parou o relógio<br />
<br />
que ontem trabalhava tão bem?<br />
e ouve o som das águas do lago<br />
salpicando - agora petrificadas.<br />
<br />
<br />
William Carlos Williamsvi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-20351266948508128802018-10-22T21:31:00.001+01:002018-10-22T21:31:22.615+01:00EchoCome to me in the silence of the night;<br />
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;<br />
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright<br />
As sunlight on a stream;<br />
Come back in tears,<br />
O memory, hope, love of finished years.<br />
<br />
O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,<br />
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,<br />
Where souls brimful of love abide and meet;<br />
Where thirsting longing eyes<br />
Watch the slow door<br />
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.<br />
<br />
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live<br />
My very life again though cold in death:<br />
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give<br />
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:<br />
Speak low, lean low,<br />
As long ago, my love, how long ago!<br />
<br />
<br />
Christina Rossettivi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-91188633107352912532018-10-20T14:23:00.004+01:002018-10-23T08:29:00.238+01:00Sovente il sole<i>Sovente il sole</i><br />
<i>Risplende in cielo</i><br />
<i>Più bello e vago</i><br />
<i>Se oscura nube</i><br />
<i>Già l'offusco.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>E il mar tranquillo</i><br />
<i>Quasi senza onda</i><br />
<i>Talor si scorge,</i><br />
<i>Se ria procella</i><br />
<i>Pria lo turbo.</i><br />
<br />
Often the sun beams in the sky<br />
With greater beauty and allure<br />
After the dark clouds, which had dimmed it before, have cleared.<br />
<br />
And the calm peaceful sea<br />
Is seen with almost no waves<br />
After the passing of a terrible storm which had agitated it before.<br />
<br />
<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Y-hCC3DdRaQ" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-78199972716494891472018-10-02T14:03:00.001+01:002018-10-20T14:25:52.733+01:00Love, strong as Death, is dead<br />
Love, strong as Death, is dead.<br />
Come, let us make his bed<br />
Among the dying flowers:<br />
A green turf at his head;<br />
And a stone at his feet,<br />
Whereon we may sit<br />
In the quiet evening hours.<br />
<br />
He was born in the Spring,<br />
And died before the harvesting:<br />
On the last warm summer day<br />
He left us; he would not stay<br />
For Autumn twilight cold and grey.<br />
Sit we by his grave, and sing<br />
He is gone away.<br />
<br />
To few chords and sad and low<br />
Sing we so:<br />
Be our eyes fixed on the grass<br />
Shadow-veiled as the years pass<br />
While we think of all that was<br />
In the long ago.<br />
<br />
<br />
Christina Rossetti sob o pseudónimo Ellen Alleynvi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-72663609223234952172018-04-24T22:18:00.001+01:002018-04-24T22:19:42.160+01:00The Waste Land - T. S. EliotI. <i>The Burial of the Dead</i><br />
<br />
April is the cruellest month, breeding<br />
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing<br />
Memory and desire, stirring<br />
Dull roots with spring rain.<br />
Winter kept us warm, covering<br />
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding<br />
A little life with dried tubers.<br />
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee<br />
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,<br />
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,<br />
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.<br />
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.<br />
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,<br />
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,<br />
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,<br />
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.<br />
In the mountains, there you feel free.<br />
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.<br />
<br />
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow<br />
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,<br />
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only<br />
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,<br />
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,<br />
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only<br />
There is shadow under this red rock,<br />
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),<br />
And I will show you something different from either<br />
Your shadow at morning striding behind you<br />
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;<br />
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.<br />
<i>Frisch weht der Wind</i><br />
<i> Der Heimat zu</i><br />
<i> Mein Irisch Kind,</i><br />
<i> Wo weilest du?</i><br />
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;<br />
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”<br />
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,<br />
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not<br />
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither<br />
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,<br />
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.<br />
<i>Oed’ und leer das Meer.</i><br />
<br />
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,<br />
Had a bad cold, nevertheless<br />
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,<br />
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,<br />
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,<br />
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)<br />
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,<br />
The lady of situations.<br />
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,<br />
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,<br />
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,<br />
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find<br />
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.<br />
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.<br />
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,<br />
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:<br />
One must be so careful these days.<br />
<br />
Unreal City,<br />
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,<br />
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,<br />
I had not thought death had undone so many.<br />
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,<br />
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.<br />
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,<br />
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours<br />
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.<br />
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!<br />
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!<br />
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,<br />
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?<br />
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?<br />
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,<br />
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!<br />
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-80392052146590731342018-01-06T10:43:00.002+00:002018-10-20T14:20:23.225+01:00Tu chiami una vitaFatica d'amore, tristezza,<br />
tu chiami una vita<br />
che dentro, profonda, ha nomi<br />
di cieli e giardini.<br />
E fosse mia carne<br />
che dono di male trasforma.<br />
<br />
Salvatore Quasimodo (1901-1968)<br />
<br />
<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DAyfpmo5Q18" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-28704537135317843612017-12-30T19:22:00.000+00:002017-12-30T19:22:23.930+00:00Tears in rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OIqaLIAo06Y/Wkfmeg2HN-I/AAAAAAAAHxc/Fzj1hGI2EWAqyqfS5K4vdvw0ADwFGxs8ACLcBGAs/s1600/Tears_In_Rain.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="492" height="164" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OIqaLIAo06Y/Wkfmeg2HN-I/AAAAAAAAHxc/Fzj1hGI2EWAqyqfS5K4vdvw0ADwFGxs8ACLcBGAs/s400/Tears_In_Rain.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvFYgELj2X0" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.</a></i><br />
<br />vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-56393475648358331022017-12-29T23:23:00.005+00:002017-12-29T23:23:50.601+00:00La Rêveuse<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Cepr1xAlIIk" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-32450622012711406832017-12-23T17:33:00.004+00:002017-12-23T17:33:55.103+00:00Birthday Ode for Queen Anne - Eternal source of light divine<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dPWyQlil8KE" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-87478917764283060952017-12-11T14:49:00.001+00:002017-12-11T14:49:25.795+00:00L'ho perduta...<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="280" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HgWzhYj2Nsw" width="400"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-37734947592291333962016-03-05T10:41:00.001+00:002016-03-05T10:41:58.887+00:00When I Am Laid in Earth<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-dUY-dB97-M" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-32993836107844177252014-09-27T10:44:00.000+01:002017-12-23T17:34:47.747+00:00Metamorphoses (1912)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/zDafGw5PGHw?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-84322468213254780252014-06-22T09:57:00.001+01:002014-06-22T09:57:12.159+01:00Morte em VenezaDe muitas coisas se pode morrer<br />
em Veneza<br />
De velhice de susto<br />
de peste<br />
<br />
ou de beleza<br />
<br />
Jorge de Sousa Braga<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zdMhzdoACSw/U6aaGgJH4gI/AAAAAAAAHO8/xxdzd5exIsk/s1600/morteveneza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zdMhzdoACSw/U6aaGgJH4gI/AAAAAAAAHO8/xxdzd5exIsk/s1600/morteveneza.jpg" height="307" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morte em Veneza, de Luchino Visconti, 1971</td></tr>
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<br />vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-62557053715007277352014-05-30T21:04:00.001+01:002014-05-30T21:15:47.044+01:00Devia morrer-se de outra maneira"Devia morrer-se de outra maneira.<br />
Transformarmo-nos em fumo, por exemplo.<br />
Ou em nuvens.<br />
Quando nos sentíssemos cansados, fartos do mesmo sol<br />
a fingir de novo todas as manhãs, convocaríamos<br />
os amigos mais íntimos com um cartão de convite<br />
para o ritual do Grande Desfazer: «Fulano de tal<br />
comunica a V. Ex.ª que vai transformar-se em nuvem<br />
hoje às 9 horas. Traje de passeio».<br />
E então, solenemente, com passos de reter tempo,<br />
fatos escuros, olhos de lua de cerimónia, viríamos<br />
todos assistir à despedida.<br />
Apertos de mão quentes. Ternura de calafrio.<br />
«Adeus! Adeus!»<br />
E, pouco a pouco, devagarinho, sem sofrimento,<br />
numa lassidão de arrancar raízes... (primeiro, os olhos...<br />
em seguida, os lábios... depois, os cabelos...) a carne,<br />
em vez de apodrecer, começaria a transfigurar-se<br />
em fumo... tão leve... tão subtil... tão pólen...<br />
como aquela nuvem além (vêem?) - nesta tarde de outono<br />
ainda tocada por um vento de lábios azuis..."<br />
<br />
José Gomes Ferreira<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qsuqAvE1Koo/U4jkBvMWUaI/AAAAAAAAHLU/Cig6Xwg8GMg/s1600/kalliope-amorphous-indreams2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qsuqAvE1Koo/U4jkBvMWUaI/AAAAAAAAHLU/Cig6Xwg8GMg/s1600/kalliope-amorphous-indreams2012.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kalliope, Amorphous Indreams, 2012</td></tr>
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<br />vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-10610184543592106932014-04-18T15:36:00.005+01:002014-04-18T15:36:52.415+01:00Morte e Ressureição<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/QYsjwKuC-Wg?rel=0" width="400"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-76784247800890399782014-02-07T18:26:00.001+00:002014-02-07T18:27:18.654+00:00Queixa das almas jovens censuradas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dão-nos um lírio e um canivete<br />
E uma alma para ir à escola<br />
E um letreiro que promete<br />
Raízes, hastes e corola.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos um mapa imaginário<br />
Que tem a forma duma cidade<br />
Mais um relógio e um calendário<br />
Onde não vem a nossa idade.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos a honra de manequim<br />
Para dar corda à nossa ausência.<br />
Dão-nos o prémio de ser assim<br />
Sem pecado e sem inocência.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos um barco e um chapéu<br />
Para tirarmos o retrato.<br />
Dão-nos bilhetes para o céu<br />
Levado à cena num teatro.<br />
<br />
Penteiam-nos os crânios ermos<br />
Com as cabeleiras dos avós<br />
Para jamais nos parecermos<br />
Connosco quando estamos sós.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos um bolo que é a história<br />
Da nossa história sem enredo<br />
E não nos soa na memória<br />
Outra palavra para o medo.<br />
<br />
Temos fantasmas tão educados<br />
Que adormecemos no seu ombro<br />
Sonos vazios, despovoados<br />
De personagens do assombro.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos a capa do evangelho<br />
E um pacote de tabaco.<br />
Dão-nos um pente e um espelho<br />
Para pentearmos um macaco.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos um cravo preso à cabeça<br />
E uma cabeça presa à cintura<br />
Para que o corpo não pareça<br />
A forma da alma que o procura.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos um esquife feito de ferro<br />
Com embutidos de diamante<br />
Para organizar já o enterro<br />
Do nosso corpo mais adiante.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos um nome e um jornal,<br />
Um avião e um violino.<br />
Mas não nos dão o animal<br />
Que espeta os cornos no destino.<br />
<br />
Dão-nos marujos de papelão<br />
Com carimbo no passaporte.<br />
Por isso a nossa dimensão<br />
Não é a vida. Nem é a morte.<br />
<br />
<br />
Natália Correia, Poesia Completa, Publicações Dom Quixote, 1999<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yn4GbFHMDtU/UvUk_0UfBYI/AAAAAAAAHFg/WFrLceVAWAI/s1600/Imogen+Cunningham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yn4GbFHMDtU/UvUk_0UfBYI/AAAAAAAAHFg/WFrLceVAWAI/s1600/Imogen+Cunningham.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imogen Cunningham</td></tr>
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<br />vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-13260776414268134442013-11-23T09:46:00.002+00:002013-11-23T09:46:25.141+00:00Danças Palacianas<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/uc6P2xLVQzA?rel=0" width="380"></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8647971352957334642.post-23049775621764915062013-10-20T16:37:00.004+01:002013-10-20T16:39:45.279+01:00As pessoas instantâneas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wPRy72VCwv4/UmP3XSubFFI/AAAAAAAAG_Q/NTFWgXjdgzE/s1600/wwii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wPRy72VCwv4/UmP3XSubFFI/AAAAAAAAG_Q/NTFWgXjdgzE/s1600/wwii.jpg" height="400" width="256" /></a></div>
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Quando a morte cai sobre as pessoas<br />
é porque tem as asas cansadas<br />
de dar voltas ao mundo.<br />
<br />
Escolhe, hesitante, um dos seus cantores.<br />
Escolhe quem, matinalmente, se cumprimenta.<br />
<br />
A morte um dia esquece e desce<br />
sobre os mesmos reverentes.<br />
<br />
Esqueceu tudo o que dissera.<br />
Ou fingiu que esqueceu tudo.<br />
<br />
Alguém parou misteriosamente de falar.<br />
<br />
E o silêncio quer dizer: “Acabou tudo.”<br />
Quer dizer: “venham comigo até aquelas grutas!”<br />
<br />
Agora finjam que estão velhos.<br />
E que ninguém está nada triste.<br />
<br />
Olhem para as vossas pernas,<br />
não há pernas!<br />
<br />
Nem mãos,<br />
excepto para tocar em coisas indescritíveis.<br />
<br />
As crianças que morriam.<br />
<br />
Vou viver para a neve com os meus filhos<br />
mergulhar nos rios soturnos e profundos<br />
em segundos.<br />
<br />
Por entre as algas e os peixes que prendiam<br />
os braços das crianças que agarravam<br />
os polvos misteriosos que ensinavam<br />
a nadar os que mereciam.<br />
Se a mim viesse algum dos mortos que ensinasse<br />
a morrer a quem vivesse<br />
a nadar a quem andasse<br />
a dormir a quem falasse<br />
<br />
Sem parar.<br />
<br />
Imitaria a vida que vivesse<br />
esse monstro que ensinasse<br />
<br />
Que morresse.<br />
<br />
Que matasse.<br />
<br />
Sem matar.<br />
<br />
<br />
António Ladeira<br />
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<iframe width="350" height="250" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9OsXu_D86IE?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>vi perduehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10466738178814914155noreply@blogger.com