Perder a memória

Acordei com medo de perder a memória. Lembrava-me, repentinamente, de tudo, Funes renascido, esquecia-me vertido um segundo. Era um turbilhão. Acordei e pensei que um dia esqueceria este medo. Fiapos de gente que também seria esquecida.

"Onde estás?". "Nos confins". "Onde, mesmo?". "Nos confins, essa terra de todos e gente nula, onde a memória se debruça num lago e acabar por sonhafogar-se em recordações". "Estás, portanto, à espera". "Sim, à espera, mas não de algo ou alguém". "Porque esperas, nesse caso?". "Espero até esquecer as mágoas. Espero até não achar mais os confins, até que eles me pareçam o centro de tudo e não lhes perceba a fronteira". "Aguardas a tua morte, é isso?". "Não, aguardo o tempo em que acordarei com medo de perder a ideia de morrer. É que perder a ideia de morrer significa perder a ideia de suspirar, o jeito de viver, a candura de amar um amor surripiado". "E a morte de outrém? A minha?". "A tua não a posso esperar. É um segredo teu e das tuas pegadas. Olha bem para elas. Se tiverem uma sombra penumbrenta, ela está à espreita".

when I was older

when I was older,

I wanted to be a flight to heaven,

a thing of stars,

a show of tunes and blessed grass.

I when older wanted to know no bounds.

I was all figures,

I created myself

A thing of leaves,

A tree of scents.

when older I wished no anguish, no serenity,

only a calm of forests

nether hallows of no people and no storms.

when I was older I had orange hearts,

and purple hair, and cosmic minds.

and I worried none. because universes were mine to fly.

quatro meses mais um

e.e. cummings

my father moved through dooms of love 
through sames of am through haves of give, 
singing each morning out of each night 
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where 
turned at his glance to shining here; 
that if(so timid air is firm) 
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which 
floats the first who,his april touch 
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates 
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep 
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry 
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea 
my father moved through griefs of joy; 
praising a forehead called the moon 
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure 
a heart of star by him could steer 
and pure so now and now so yes 
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend 
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend 
than he to foolish and to wise  
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame 
beckoned)as earth will downward climb, 
so naked for immortal work 
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head; 
if every friend became his foe 
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we, 
singing each new leaf out of each tree 
(and every child was sure that spring 
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share, 
let blood and flesh be mud and mire, 
scheming imagine,passion willed, 
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind, 
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind, 
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright, 
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death 
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul 
love is the whole and more than all