passava uns onze anos mastigando um pedaço de nuvem, duro e grudento como caramelo, antes de eu crescer; bobagem por bobagem eu fico mesmo aqui, olhando sem espanto o céu nascer.

QUEEN: (...) Thou know'st 'tis common, all that lives must die,
Passing through nature, to eternity.
HAMLET: Ay, Madam, it is common.
QUEEN: If it be,
why seems it so particular with thee?
HAMLET: Seems, Madam? nay, it is: i know not seems:
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Not costumary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration os forc'd breath.
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly.These indeed seem,
for they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show,
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.


(RAINHA: (...) é lei comum, tu o sabes, quantos vivem,
passam da natureza para a vida da eternidade.

HAMLET: É lei comum, realmente, minha senhora.

RAINHA: Então, se é assim com todos, porque te parece tão particular?

HAMLET: Não parece, senhora; é. Não conheço "pareces'', boa mãe. Nem esta capa sombria, nem as vestes costumeiras de solene cor negra, os tempestuosos suspiros arrancados do imo peito, as torrentes fecundas que me descem dos olhos, o semblante acabrunhado, nem todas as demais modalidades da mágoa poderão nunca, em verdade, definir-me.
Parecem, tão-somente, pois são gestos de fácil fingimento. Mas há algo dentro em mim que não parece. Tudo isso é roupa e enfeite do infortúnio.)




-------------------------------------
Goodbye, sweet B.
I loved you every minute.
I'll see you in heaven, wait for me.

there are no fishermen, no battle ships,
no English sails, no eventful times
coming our way, which is the way
of the seaside.

(we are ready and armed cap-à-pie
in case those times decide to come,
and to assure they will not dare,
we kill some time over here and there)

the wide and navy-hued forgiveness
ripples in front of us with letters and symbols
filling pages with many a word
that we could never distinguish.

and we,
the paperweights of the sandy coast,
we leave our footprints in the shoremud
at this very moment with no history in it,
no truth nor lyric,
no poetry nor turmoil;
and then we rehearse
the following steps.

the wind and our distemper
troubles the tide, puncutually
at this dead hour
day after day
we come together as a part of
the same wonderful aquatic stillness,
feeding thoughts to fish and watching
those get swallowed by bigger
fish.

we- the sum of each other's parts,
even the ones gone missing-
stand and melt
beneath the flame thrower
of the tropic.

blessed by the dropping eyes
of heaven, that never allow
the ocean to dry,
we bear the duty of pacing
daily along the shore

and now our feet are touching the
water,
and we are receiving its bountiful
substance,
and the immaterial stream
is flowing from within ourselves
into the endless extension of the
sea beyond us.