Blog do Quinze

Para um dia de lua cheia, como hoje The Moon by  Emily Dickinson   (1830 – 1886) The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

O texto que eu gostaria de ter escrito. This is what you shall do , extraído do prefácio do livro de poesias Leaves of Grass , de Walt Whitman: This is what you shall do by  Walt Whitman "This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the l...

Perdido permanentemente entre as pessoas passando Ofuscado pelo outros, orientação olvidada Depois de dias distintos, diferentes e idênticos Rotina repetida reiterada no relógio Dormir, despertar, dirigir, dedicar-se Às atividades amiúde áridas e aborrecidas Sonhos soterrados, sofrimentos soturnos Saudades da senhora que sequer sabia Desejada desesperadamente, adjacente mas deveras distante Cansado e confuso caiu em cólera Perto do precipício, prestes a parar Decidiu desejar diminuir o desespero Trocou a aliteração pela sinestesia O sol da manhã passou a ser doce Palavras coloridas, toques perfumados Os sons da cidade tornaram-se suaves e saborosos Ouviu também desaforos amargos Olhares negros, ofensas doídas O perfume de seu jardim de rosas muitas vezes foi sombrio Mas finalmente vivia