Noite de Névoa

Em noites como esta, quando o silencio é só
E a rua turva com a névoa empresta aos postes
Um claro fosco de sonhos esquecidos,
Ponho-me à janela, cachimbo em mãos como luneta,
A entrever no espelho baço da cidade
Algum sinal de vidro iluminado,
Ou sombra vagueando o espaço indefinido,
Como se dormisse algures este alguém que pensa
E logo ali estivesse a realidade.

Espelho d'Água

Meu toque é falso nesta pedra,

Ela desconhece minha presença.

Constroi-se somente em minha ausência

E ignora a vontade que lhe estendo.

É falso pois lhe dou o que não pede,

Sede impingida pelo orvalho.

Cruel a face que se força cega

Ao espelho que era outrora apenas água.

O Agouro

Os olhos são lodos profundos de vazio,

Seu corpo um entoado de tristeza corrente.

Assim como o ar, é frio e cortante. Solitário.

Quieto. Só fala diante do maior absurdo.

Suas plumas negras, de nobreza noturna

Misturam-se ao corpo da penumbra.

Errantes malditos, bailarinos dos mistérios,

Girando suas graças soltos na bruma.

A dor e a morte são seu império,

A lágrima e a memória são a sua pluma.

É dentre os mortais, o agouro mais medonho.

Sua presença, o caos para todo que o avista.

Exceto a feliz coincidência, eu suponho,

De quando pousou nos umbrais daquele artista.

Sobre a Ponte de Pegas

Deixe, peço, que estas lágrimas que tanto te revoltam
Despertem de seu sono e nos despeçam apenas
Quando a lembrança amarga da revolução dos astros,
Como um augúrio impresso ante a migração do sol,
Entreponha após o desenlace de nossos dedos
A realidade intransponível da memória
E do desejo.

(Inspirado na lenda chinesa de Niu Lang (Vaqueiro) e Zhi Nu (Fiandeira), escrito pós a leitura de um poema anônimo chinês, aqui traduzido do inglês)

Longe e longe está a Estrela do Vaqueiro,

clara e clara é a Garota Fiandeira.

Alva e delicada, suas mãos se movem

ziguezagueando no tear.

Ela não termina uma peça num dia

e suas lágrimas fiam-se abaixo como chuva.

O Rio Celeste está claro e raso;

Não há nenhuma distância entre os dois.

Através das águas transbordantes

a Fiandeira olha com amor silente

Spirit's Palestine

That was not a pilgrim's journey, inside
His eyes. The wind over the holy land,
Whispering dry conclusions to his dreams,
Burned in earthly fire the pray on his lips
And lifted to heaven the sterile intonations
Of the sand.
"That is a souls-ridden land."

Love spoke and died before the infinite
Of the desert; his tears did not suffice
To fill a pond for his urged reflections.
His inward eyes had foretold him the end:
He lacked a passion enough to name a god
Upon his death, or else a crucifixion,
Nailed at fast, on self and soul's intersection.
He sighed:
"It is a robber's death at last."

A Pale Horse Named Death

The years have been passing fast in the last seconds. I've been in me since I could see the waves of change in the fog. A fog. A fog made of nurture and a sense of shapeness. A sense of cloudlessness. A sense of sound, a silent sound echoing inside my brain. And eyes in the rain, like eyes of someone searching for eyes. Searching for nurturing. A figure of a vulture, living, vanishing, verbalizing, wishing something whistling its name in the air.

This place. This place was alive once. A small fence further to the fables of my father, further to my faults, further to my falling house. A miserable house. A miserable house, consuming every being of everything. I could sense the rotten wood whispering to my guts that were burning every second I dared to breath.

The wind ran around trees and the valleys were gray, as the sky looping colorfull and cadaverous everytime I was lost inside the universe. Time was a mad man laughing among the living. It was a cherry flavor in my tongue. It was the very toil, the own tool to transform the fade and the fallen. Time was a trot, time was a virulent mouth. Time was a sigh. A very soon sigh. A very deep sigh.

When it came at me, deep down in my house, a putrid breath of its massive hug. A livetime touch that I could only palp. An unflagging, subtle scald pumping my throat. Trees were dry. The valley was gone. My house has been remembered. I heard birds, I always did. Now they were really birds. Now they were singing. Now they were fluttering. My hands fluttered too. And I, astonished, saw them. There were no sands inside the air, there was dust inside my sand.

But no shadows has changed place.

My eyes were looking for them. My eyes were rid of my house, it was rid of my space. Shape of eternety is an animal. I saw that animal. My eyes in the rain, not more in vain, as wise as my brain. It was the same. I was the same.

I never changed a single shadow, and that animal's shadow has walked through me, and I was me again.

Lost.

A Reconciled Song

I cannot sing as a happy child
Nor conceive a song as an old man,
But now I know to be as mild
And I am happy in knowing them.