mort mot juste

dezembro 31, 2006

As Horas

às onze
mas que transporte é esse
que visível não é,
e carrega a alma vivente
-as outras já sabem sozinhas
se deslocar- de um tempo
ao próximo tempo
e deste outro ao fim de todos

qual é o comboio ou a
a conduzir-nos ao amanhã?

às doze
despertam as horas.
e qual delas
há de chorar por ter
seu tempo passado

o sabe o ponteiro
o senhor pontual
de teu ponto final:

a morte
mais não é que um atraso

maria 7:55 PM 2 vociferando estavam

dezembro 25, 2006

regarding fairy-lights

the morning grew on me
like a feeling of mistrust.
it rose fully green
and pear-shaped from the shrubs
lit as if by dying bulbs
it vapoured from the grass
then summited at my chest.

i stepped outside the house and looked
bluntly at the flower pots.
they were still asleep.
so were all the dogs.
peddlers and steam clouds waved at me,
i waved back
my daughter in a blanket, on my lap;
i underwent the morning as she slept.

the next hour came, and the other
did unfold
so prompt and orderly
all the others rolled:
for they were surely
and smooth enough to slip
so down the steps they went
and by the rosebuds they were split.

(captive of the thick,
indestructible stiffness
in a motion of wheels, leaves
and legs
my window-eyed home stared
formal and tall
into the hazel gazed
red haired deity of the busy
street in June.)

i lowered my brow to the fine
vision of my baby's eyelashes.
her faced seemed to be switched
on and off like a lamp.
the cruel evergreens and the passing workers
waved at me,
i waved back
in return for their sympathy towards
the woman with no descendants.

the scent of festivities invaded the yards and
the doors to the houses were carefully locked.
the sky turned night-carmine as it
usually did,
the stars shed some light
over bodies of birds that had toppled.
i left
into the front door
as i found myself standing with
the blanket in my arms, empty
and my garden, barren.

maria 11:36 PM 0 vociferando estavam

ao rés da fala