sábado, 24 de novembro de 2007

Bowles em Bertolluci


"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustable well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that is so deeply part of your being, that you can't even conceive of your life without it. Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless."

Willy

"Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou are more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

domingo, 18 de novembro de 2007

Keats

"That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow..."

domingo, 11 de novembro de 2007

prece

ah meu irmão
salgaste meus olhos
você que conhecia o mundo
quando eu, da velha casa
apenas vigiava lá fora

irmão das maiores euforias
de todos por todos nós
ramo da familia
nosso semblante de ilusão

imagina-lo assim
tão preso a nós e
tão sozinho:
o filho da frente
o filho pródigo -
que fardo levaste

abandone
a insignia desse ramo
de sonho a espinho
a hora da tua vida
te pede

sexta-feira, 2 de novembro de 2007

O Passado (de Babenco)



o passado
não conhece
retorno

como cinza que voa
da chama do fogo

e se a nós se prende
o toque do instante
da vela que apaga
o fátuo restante

o passado
não conhece
retorno

O Passado (continuação)

partida que volta
intriga do tempo
manhã que entardece
um crepúsculo negro

o presente retorna
nas feridas do agora
das chagas as flores
da vida: os amores

e se o amor encerra
a saga da hora
na fuga, a demora
da espera, um alento

o presente é retorno
e o passado revive
no sonho sem tempo
dos amores que tive

do passado perdido
um presente partido
e um passado presente
perdido no sempre