DÉCIMO  VERSO

 

 

NEM  A  EFICÁCIA  DE  MOVER  O  MUNDO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Escolha aleatoriamente u número entre 947 e 1063 inclusive.

 

Descubra o poema correspondente como uma mensagem particular para o seu dia de hoje.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

947                                                                                                                      O que vocês não admitirão

Nem a eficácia                                                                                                  É que não tenho fronteiras!

 

Nem a eficácia                                                                                                   Ora,

De mover o mundo                                                                                           Não é aqui mas sempre além

É perspicácia.                                                                                                    Que aposto desde agora

Quando a aprofundo,                                                                                      O que convém.

Não vale nada

Comparada                                                                                                         Deixem-me em paz!

À energia                                                                                                            Primeiro,

Dum sonho que principia.                                                                                Porque tanto faz:

                                                                                                                             No momento derradeiro,

                                                                                                                             Queiram-no ou não,

948                                                                                                                       Sou inteiro

Avião                                                                                                                   E com tudo em comunhão.

 

Sob as nuvens, o avião                                                                                   Depois,

A curva mole descreveu,                                                                                 Nem convosco serei dois:

Insecto                                                                                                               Somos um no mesmo grito

A passear no chão                                                                                           A chamar pelo infinito.

Do céu

- Em nosso tecto!

                                                                                                                             951

                                                                                                                             Advogado

949

Fale                                                                                                                     Um advogado não é um aldrabão.

                                                                                                                             É quem gasta cada tostão

Há silêncios que reboam                                                                                  Do que é meu

Mais que as trompas                                                                                        A provar que tem razão.

Quando ecoam.                                                                                                 ...E que me convenceu!

Não procures alibi,

Não interrompas:

- Para que teu trabalho fale                                                                             952

Por ti,                                                                                                                  Prova

Importa que o mais te cale!

                                                                                                                            Aquilo que o tempo aprova

                                                                                                                            É o bem que proporciona

950                                                                                                                      A iniciativa que inova.

Inteiro                                                                                                                Mas ao tapete de lona

                                                                                                                            O lutador cai por vezes

Não me demove o gemido                                                                              Sem ver a causa aos reveses:

Nem o aceno do dinheiro:                                                                               - O que não foi posto à prova

- Não, não tenho partido,                                                                               Não funciona.

Sou inteiro!

 

E, se num partido entro,                                                                                   953

O meu lugar                                                                                                       Gere

Lá dentro

É o de o despartidarizar.                                                                                  Por muito que a cárie gere cárie

                                                                                                                             Quando os dentes dou aos ócios,

O meu modo                                                                                                      A barbárie não vem da barbárie,

É doutra identidade:                                                                                         A barbárie vem dos negócios.

Só o todo                                                                                                           Os brutos saltam-me à janela:

É que é verdade.                                                                                               - Não podem negociar sem ela!

 

Não é falta de maneiras,

Não:

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

954                                                                                                                      959

Problema                                                                                                          Como

 

O problema de nosso lugar                                                                            Tem lá confiança em ti,

Não é o de ter ou não porvir,                                                                         Que os demais também terão.

É que, se o podemos criar,                                                                             Não digas não:

Também o podemos destruir.                                                                        Mostra, mostra agora e aqui!

                                                                                                                            Trata como gostarias

                                                                                                                            Que te tratassem a ti.

955                                                                                                                      E oferta todos os dias

Lugar                                                                                                                 Um pouco mais do que aquilo

                                                                                                                            Que os outros de nós esperam.

No lugar                                                                                                             Poderás viver tranquilo:

Do sonho apetecido                                                                                        - Teus desaires já esqueceram!

Já lá moro antes de chegar

E ainda fico após ter partido.

                                                                                                                            960

                                                                                                                            Correr

956

Arremede                                                                                                          Em Africa, de manhãzinha,

                                                                                                                            Uma gazela acorda.

Não, aí não entro,                                                                                             Terá de correr mais que o leão mais veloz

Vou-me embora!                                                                                               Senão morrerá.

Arte sem nada dentro                                                                                      Em África, da manhãzinha,

E menos ainda cá fora                                                                                      Um leão acorda.

Não germina em meus hortos.                                                                        Terá de correr mais que a gazela mais veloz

Por muito que, comprometida,                                                                        Senão de fome morrerá.

Arremede a vida,

Àquela talham-na os mortos.                                                                          Gazela ou leão, que te importa?

Sofra embora desconfortos,                                                                            - Quando o sol nascer,

Eu serei bandeira erguida!                                                                               Abre a porta

                                                                                                                             E desata a correr!

 

 

957                                                                                                                       961

Porta                                                                                                                   Antes

 

O que nos salvará dos escombros                                                                 Não te encostes à parede,

É uma estreita porta:                                                                                         Não te tornes um destroço:

Mais que ter a cabeça sobre os ombros,                                                       Antes de que tenhas sede,

É o que ela terá dentro que importa.                                                               Cava o poço!

 

 

958                                                                                                                        962

Pensar                                                                                                                 Nem

 

Há pessoas que jamais pensaram.                                                                   Duma cabra pela frente,

Pior, porém, são os que pensam                                                                      Nem dum cavalo por trás,

Que sabem pensar.                                                                                            Dum louco por qualquer lado,

É que os homens então param                                                                          Aproximar-se não tente,

Antes que as ideias os vençam.                                                                       Que o que faz

E logo se enganam de lugar.                                                                             É, no fim, ser destroçado.

 

 

                                                                ======================================================================

 

963                                                                                                                      Que o faz

Tivermos                                                                                                           Sofrer?

                                                                                                                            - E assim é que apraz

Nem                                                                                                                    Viver!

Estafermos,

Nem

Infernos,                                                                                                            967

Nem                                                                                                                    Rastejar

Ermos,

Nem Invernos                                                                                                   O que aterra

Nos impedirão                                                                                                  É que os homens não queiram voar.

De sermos.                                                                                                        Preferem rastejar

Não!                                                                                                                   Na poeira da terra.

Seremos alguém:

- Enquanto uns aos outros nos tivermos,                                                    Que ao menos deixem

Estaremos bem!                                                                                                Voar os demais

                                                                                                                            Que têm asas para o fazer.

                                                                                                                            Que se desleixem,

964                                                                                                                       Não incitem crianças, animais

Vim                                                                                                                     Contra quem quiser

                                                                                                                             Trepar cá dos baixos

Olha para mim.                                                                                                   E ascender!

Queiras ou não queiras,                                                                                   - Ah! Como os répteis são aos cachos!

Só porque vim

Mudaram tuas jeiras.

                                                                                                                            968

Jamais serás                                                                                                      Escritor

Aquele que eras

Antes de meu toque fugaz                                                                             O escritor,

Em tuas quimeras.                                                                                            Se não faz descobertas

                                                                                                                            Sensacionais,

Vais ser                                                                                                              Ferido no pundonor,

Doravante                                                                                                          Inventa-as, desperta-as...

Outro eu a acontecer                                                                                       - Não é preciso mais:

De mim por ti adiante.                                                                                      Então é que tem valor!

 

 

965                                                                                                                      969

Potência                                                                                                            Partir

 

Uma frase de paixão                                                                                        Vai meu filho para o mundo

Às vezes tem mais potência                                                                          De que não conhece nada.

Do que um tiro de canhão,                                                                             Qualquer risco é tão profundo

E joga com frequência                                                                                     Ante a insegura passada!

Os amantes                                                                                                       E esta voz a me trair

Tão distantes                                                                                                    No peito rouco...

Que nem eles por si dão!                                                                                 - Vê-lo partir

                                                                                                                            É morrer um pouco!

 

966

Esquecer                                                                                                            970

                                                                                                                             Vontade

O amor é a paz

Que a guerra traz:                                                                                              A força de vontade

De esquecer                                                                                                       Não a confundo

Quem é capaz                                                                                                     Com espírito de sacrifício:

A mulher                                                                                                             Força é a positividade

 

 

 

                                                                ======================================================================

 

Com que fundo o início.                                                                                 Depois vieram capturar

                                                                                                                           Os judeus:

                                                                                                                           Não achei de protestar,

971                                                                                                                     Que não eram dos meus.

Querer

                                                                                                                            A seguir vieram capturar

Querer é poder.                                                                                                 Os sindicalistas:

Não é, porém, toda a verdade:                                                                       Não achei de protestar,

Além do que se quer,                                                                                      Que deles não corro nas pistas.

Há muros a vencer

E a capacidade                                                                                                  Por fim vieram capturar

A que apeles                                                                                                     Os crentes:

De lidar com eles.                                                                                             Não achei de protestar,

                                                                                                                            Que eu sou dos inocentes.

 

972                                                                                                                      Agora chega a minha vez:

Mantém                                                                                                              - E já não restará ninguém

                                                                                                                            Para gritar, talvez,

Quando o porco mato,                                                                                    Pelo refém!

É o preço de manter-me vivo,

Não é vício:

A vida mantém a vida em recato,                                                                   976

Sem correctivo                                                                                                  Velocidade

Nem desperdício.

                                                                                                                            A velocidade

                                                                                                                            É a nossa libertação:

973                                                                                                                      A sensação

Vingança                                                                                                           De me distanciar de mim,

                                                                                                                            Largando para trás a velha identidade,

Doce é a vingança                                                                                           Purificando-me enfim.

Se, em vez de matar um inimigo,                                                                    Como se, no fim,

Alcança                                                                                                             Pudesse renascer sob outros céus:

Convertê-lo em amigo.                                                                                    No silvo dos comboios, carros, aviões

                                                                                                                            Voam os sonhos de não ter senões,

                                                                                                                            Vêm os traços que hão-de ser os meus.

974

Ar

                                                                                                                            977

Como quem respira o ar                                                                                  Série

Se percebe:

Quem nada pode dar                                                                                       A vida

Nada recebe.                                                                                                     É uma série de mudanças

                                                                                                                            Tão constantes, tão constantes

Mas se pode ainda aceitar,                                                                             Que mora despercebida

Não se ofenda:                                                                                                 Na série das contradanças

- A ternura dá lugar                                                                                         Dos instantes.

À prenda!                                                                                                          Embora não manifestem

                                                                                                                            Um rosto visível,

                                                                                                                            As mudanças me vestem,

975                                                                                                                      Me revestem,

Não                                                                                                                     Tornam-me um homem possível

                                                                                                                            Quando por mim fora investem.

Primeiro vieram capturar                                                                                 Assim

Os comunistas:                                                                                                 Me prendo

Não achei de protestar,                                                                                   A mim.

Que eu não lhes era das listas                                                                       E aprendo:

                                                                                                                            - Minha idade

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

É a desta maturidade.                                                                                      Mexemos, mortos de cansaço,

                                                                                                                            Para não pensarmos mais.

                                                                                                                            No derradeiro, o que quero

978                                                                                                                      É dissolver-me no espaço

Tripulação                                                                                                        Em átomos siderais.

                                                                                                                            Depois, a maré da vida

Que importa o grande plantio,                                                                       Volta a encher-nos:        

Estradas, pontes a rigor,                                                                                 - É a respiração comedida

Se nisto ninguém tem mão?                                                                           Dos gestos ternos.

- Um navio

Nunca pode ser melhor

Que sua tripulação!                                                                                         983

                                                                                                                           Escravidão

 

979                                                                                                                     O lugar

Inimigo                                                                                                             Da escravidão:

                                                                                                                           - Posso falar?

Quando apenas o inimigo                                                                             - Não!

Nos pode salvar

É mais que um perigo:

Ninguém mais tem lar!                                                                                     984

                                                                                                                            Milagres

Resta a consolação:

Vai ter de dar lugar                                                                                           Quem os milagres condena

A melhor situação.                                                                                           Talvez creia nas más sinas.

                                                                                                                            É uma pena!

                                                                                                                            Não tem razão,

980                                                                                                                      Porque há estrelas no chão:

Luz                                                                                                                      - Tantos meninos e meninas!

 

Foi-nos dada a luz,

Fizemo-nos humanos.                                                                                      985

Domámos o fogo, a bomba o reproduz:                                                        Madrugada

Principiaram os desenganos.

Há verdades eternas,                                                                                       A verdadeira madrugada

Tudo a pouco se reduz:                                                                                   É assim:

- Matámos a luz,                                                                                                Moras em mim

Voltamos a ser homens das cavernas!                                                          Mesmo que dês outra morada.

 

 

981                                                                                                                       986

Culpa                                                                                                                  Dilema

 

Onde começa e acaba a culpa?                                                                       O dilema

Começa em todo o lado                                                                                   De viver:

E não acaba nunca.                                                                                          Acordas, és poema

Ou isto é uma desculpa                                                                                   Antes de o poema acontecer.

E o inverso é que é vedado

A qualquer pergunta?

Oh! Céus!                                                                                                           987

Onde está Deus? Onde está Deus?                                                               Pegada

 

                                                                                                                             Cego,

982                                                                                                                       Surdo

Desespero                                                                                                          E mudo,

                                                                                                                             É o apego

No penúltimo desespero,                                                                                 Com que urdo

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

Minha teia:                                                                                                         E tímidos foram os abraços,

Imprimo a pegada em tudo,                                                                              Pois cedo é preciso entregar os braços

De mim deixo a História cheia.                                                                         Ao campo.

                                                                                                                             A campesina criança,

                                                                                                                             De membros lassos                                                                                                              

988                                                                                                                       E gestos graves,

Pressa                                                                                                                 Não descansa nem alcança,

                                                                                                                              É o figo lampo

Primeiro um homem tropeça,                                                                            Temporãmente comido pelas aves.

Gatinha mal, depois anda

E mais tardio é que corre.

Como não lhe pára a pressa,                                                                            992

Fareja em nova demanda                                                                                  Caroços

O balão que breve morre:

Foi este o primeiro passo,                                                                                 Caroços ao chão

Perdido em longa distância,                                                                              Sempre o povo atira.

Que hoje faz voar no espaço                                                                            Tivera-os à mão

Nossa insaciável ânsia.                                                                                     E el-rei o repetira.

 

Ninguém descortina, ao ir                                                                                 Nas coisas pequenas

Prender a amarra do estai,                                                                                 Nos traem os sinais

Rumo a que ignoto porvir                                                                                 De que somos apenas

Vai.                                                                                                                        Todos iguais.

 

 

989                                                                                                                        993

Ausência                                                                                                             Segredo

 

Se o coração não entendeu                                                                              A decrepitude

O que ouviu,                                                                                                       Vem do medo,

Na boca não há mentira                                                                                     O que mantém a juventude

Ao falar:                                                                                                               É guardar um segredo.

É uma ausência que delira

Longe do lar.

                                                                                                                              994

                                                                                                                              Vida

990

Caso                                                                                                                     Nem miséria, nem tristeza,

                                                                                                                              Se em todo o lugar correram

Muito pouco caso                                                                                             Águas sobre as pedras,

Se faz de muitos casos                                                                                      Se as aves cantaram a beleza:

Para que verdades                                                                                             - Com a vida medras

Maiores, por acaso,                                                                                           Os que a morreram.

Se salvem nos prazos

Das utilidades!                                                                                                   Pode a vida ser apenas

Quantas vezes                                                                                                    Nas ervas estar sentado,

Se mente                                                                                                              Segurar um malmequer

Para evitar reveses                                                                                             Do prado

Da vida ou da mente?                                                                                        E não lhe arrancar as penas

                                                                                                                              Que nas pétalas tiver.

 

991                                                                                                                        Não arrancar, que pequenas

Campo                                                                                                                  Já sabemos as respostas

                                                                                                                              E são de tão pouca monta

Breves lhe crescem os traços                                                                           Que descobri-las nem conta.

Da mesa sobre o tampo,                                                                                    Nunca valem as apostas

Escassos                                                                                                              Que nos segreda o rumor

 

 

                                                                ======================================================================                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

 

Que há na vida duma flor.                                                                               Ao fim e ao cabo, seguro,

O rumor vale                                                                                                      É que tanto faz:

Sobretudo                                                                                                          - Ninguém logra atravessar o muro!

Por nada haver que o iguale.

E é tudo.

                                                                                                                            999

                                                                                                                            Feliz

995

Fartos                                                                                                                Ser feliz

                                                                                                                           É contentar-se

Há muitos que, fartos,                                                                                     Cada qual com o que tem, 

Sabendo que o pão de agora                                                                         Enquanto, por um triz,

Nunca mata a fome de ontem                                                                         Se nos disfarce

E menos a de amanhã,                                                                                     O que vem.

Mesmo assim tombam nos quartos                                                              Enquanto não rompe o alvor:

E, sem demora,                                                                                                 - Enquanto não me inventar melhor!

Mal as preguiças apontem,

Dão-se à soneira malsã.

                                                                                                                            1000

Então, devagarinho,                                                                                         Infernos

Fica-lhes o pitéu pelo caminho.

                                                                                                                             Inferior a nós ninguém

                                                                                                                             Pode ofender-nos;

996                                                                                                                       Igual a nós, também,

Milhões                                                                                                              Que ninguém ousaria...

                                                                                                                             - Donde provém

Aos milhões, como os usar,                                                                            A romaria

Que faria então de mim?                                                                                   Aos infernos?

- Os pobres não sabem gastar,                                                                        De nós acima

Os poderosos, sim.                                                                                            São

                                                                                                                              Os gelos eternos

                                                                                                                              Da solidão...

997                                                                                                                        - Onde é que a ofensa se arrima?

Carnal

 

Comércio carnal?                                                                                               1001

Não é por isso                                                                                                    Envelhecer

Que as pessoas deixam de ser santas.

Por sinal,                                                                                                             Envelhecer é do artelho,

É o chamiço                                                                                                        Não é um auto-de-fé:

Que, más e boas,                                                                                                Ser olhado como velho

Um dia, às tantas,                                                                                              É que é.

As fez pessoas.

 

                                                                                                                             1002

998                                                                                                                       Alcance

Metade

                                                                                                                             A felicidade

Do mundo a metade                                                                                          Brinca ao alcance

Tem curiosidade                                                                                                De qualquer pessoa.

Por saber da vida                                                                                               Então por que é que há-de

Da outra metade                                                                                                 Perder-se-lhe o lance?

E esta revida.                                                                                                      Não é assim tão boa?

                                                                                                                              É que a maioria,

Quando ninguém tem de meter-se                                                                   Por mera preguiça

Onde outrem a vida converse.                                                                         Sem qualquer remorso,

Aliás,                                                                                                                    Nunca a quereria:

                     

 

                                                                ======================================================================

 

- Que ela desce à liça                                                                                       De como os desempataria!

Mas com muito esforço!                                                                                 Sei lá como a aprenderei!

                                                                                                                            Aqui d'el-rei! Aqui d'el-rei!

 

1003

Ratoeira                                                                                                             1008                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                             Soldado

Os mais inteligentes,

Com as reacções lentas demais,                                                                     Soldado aparvalhado

Impacientes,                                                                                                      Não presta:

Já os outros não ouvem mais.                                                                        O maior defeito do soldado

A impaciência                                                                                                   É ser besta.

É a asneira                                                                                                         E assim

Em que a melhor inteligência                                                                          É mesmo parvo o nosso fim!

Cai na ratoeira.

 

                                                                                                                            1009

1004                                                                                                                    Capitão

Ouvir

                                                                                                                            Para o preso capitão

Quando "ouvir os subordinados                                                                  As ordens, o regulamento

É bom para os fracos",                                                                                    Sempre o deformarão

Já os sonhos ficaram derrotados                                                                   Sob o esmagamento

E as carreiras, em cacos.                                                                                  Da disciplina.

                                                                                                                            Atarantado na cela,

                                                                                                                            A orelha atenta inclina

1005                                                                                                                    Ao passo da sentinela,

Risco                                                                                                                  A decifrar o rumor,

                                                                                                                            A adivinhar as esferas

Espicaçados pela omnisciência,                                                                    Que se lhe virão impor

Os mais brilhantes não vêem o cisco:                                                           Em traiçoeiras esperas.

Tornam-se viciados por excelência                                                               Se vier um general,

No risco.                                                                                                            Tamanho que nos esmaga,

                                                                                                                            Somos apenas o animal

                                                                                                                            A quem ele roga a praga.

1006                                                                                                                    Tudo vai depender dele,

Criança                                                                                                             Ao arbítrio da vontade:

                                                                                                                            A nossa pele,

Ser criança                                                                                                         A nossa identidade.

É viver tão aturdido                                                                                         É o destino daquele

Num Verão que não se alcança                                                                      Meu parceiro:

Que tudo cai logo no olvido,                                                                          - O prisioneiro

- Excepto o que sempre há-de                                                                        Da Humanidade!

Prometer a liberdade.

 

                                                                                                                            1010

1007                                                                                                                    Defensores

Mudança

                                                                                                                            Se os defensores da ordem

A mudança                                                                                                        A violam,

É horrível:                                                                                                          Que esperar dos que a só mordem?

Perco a segurança                                                                                            Caos, confusão e ruína

E tudo é possível,                                                                                             É o que juntos nos arrolam

                                                                                                                             Como sina.

O bem e o mal,

O novo e a velharia...

- Sem sinal

 

 

                                                                ======================================================================

 

1011                                                                                                                    E assim morre a vida à fome

Suicida                                                                                                              De vida

                                                                                                                            Viva:

A nossa vida não tem                                                                                     - Tudo se some, tudo se some

Muito valor.                                                                                                      Tão de fugida!...

Quando se envenena, quem

Não quer fim lhe contrapor?

Caso ao suicida falte a coragem,                                                                    1014

Mete pés à viagem                                                                                           Transmutam

Da rebelião.

Sobre quem manda                                                                                           À míngua de louros,

Recai doravante a decisão                                                                              Revolucionários bisonhos

De seu desaparecimento.                                                                                As chicotadas dos couros

Em paz, finalmente, anda,                                                                                Transmutam em honrarias,

Com este fingimento,                                                                                       Guerreiros de sonhos

O frustrado suicida.                                                                                         E fantasias.

Então, tornado herói,                                                                                       Pior, porém,

Já não é o que foi:                                                                                            É que a confusão de valores

- Corre-lhe por fim bem a vida!                                                                       A princípio provoca desdém

                                                                                                                            E, no fim, temores

                                                                                                                            De sermos colhidos também.

1012                                                                                                                    Colhidos no frio

Presos                                                                                                               Deste vazio

                                                                                                                            Onde não mora ninguém!

Aos presos de opinião

Não é só o corpo que ferem.

Ao arrastá-los no chão,                                                                                   1015

Ao encharcá-los de lama,                                                                                Louvor

O que querem

É embotar o coração,                                                                                        O louvor em várias formas,

Podar-lhes a rama                                                                                              Edulcorado nos tons,

Da vontade.                                                                                                       Elogios que transformas

Porém, desmascarada a intenção,                                                                   Num mar hipnótico de sons

Fica o efeito na metade:                                                                                   Estrumam a massa ignara.

Após as horas mais duras,                                                                              Enxerga-se a grandeza ausente

Senhor do entremez,                                                                                        Dum tamanho conveniente,

Mais convicto da razão                                                                                    Vira o banal jóia rara.

E das torturas,                                                                                                   Curtas virtudes aumentam,

Liberta-se de vez                                                                                               Desenvoltas,

O coração.                                                                                                          Defeitos se desinventam

                                                                                                                             Obliterados.

                                                                                                                             Soltas

1013                                                                                                                     O personagem dos fados

Sumiu                                                                                                                 Encomendados:

                                                                                                                             Síntese da qualidade alheia

No final                                                                                                               Discretamente oculta.

Cada qual                                                                                                           Dele se pendura cheia

Se sumiu.                                                                                                            A instituição culta,

Na verdade, desde que nasceu                                                                       O movimento justo,

Em perenidade                                                                                                   O partido alternativo.

Se esteve sumindo,                                                                                           Cabide elevado a custo,

A esgueirar-se de canto para esquina.                                                          Encarna a coragem, o motivo,

Todo o manejo findo,                                                                                       A firmeza, o talento

Cumpre a sina                                                                                                    Que não tem mas que lhe invento.

Na fuga definitiva,                                                                                            - Para que jamais

Nem há tempo de gravar-lhe o nome                                                             Se deixe de ver nele o que há no mais.

Na retentiva.                                                                                                      E que, ao fim, lá

                                                                                                                                                                          

 

                                                                ======================================================================

 

Também não há,                                                                                               Tudo igual,

Que o que lá ponho                                                                                         Aqui não há padrinhos,

É o nosso sonho.                                                                                             Quem os tem ficou lá fora

O sonho, quando aprouver,                                                                           Noutros ninhos,

De vir a ser.                                                                                                       Por outros caminhos...

                                                                                                                            Aqui, agora

                                                                                                                            Ninguém se vai corrigir:

1016                                                                                                                    Quem à Terra veio, ao nascer,

Rebanho                                                                                                             Quando a sério o vir,

                                                                                                                            Veio aqui para morrer!

Humanal

Rebanho de criaturas,

Acossado                                                                                                          1019

Em curral                                                                                                            Fama

De arame farpado,

- Tais são nossas figuras!                                                                               Todos gostamos de vir a ser

Aqui, lado a lado,                                                                                             Alguém que sempre recebe

Que futuro me futuras?                                                                                   A paga superna:

                                                                                                                            A fama reconhecida.

                                                                                                                            E até deixar de beber

1017                                                                                                                     Ninguém percebe

Quando                                                                                                               Que a vida social moderna

                                                                                                                             Gira em torno da bebida.

Quando nos tiram as unhas dos pés,                                                            Há quem creia que a fama

Arrancadas a turquês,                                                                                      É uma droga,

É o horror                                                                                                            Quando droga é a cama

Da dor.                                                                                                                Alcoólica que a afoga.

                                                                                                                             Será por isto que famoso

Quando sem as unhas vemos um sujeito,                                                     A sério,

Sabemos que, de algum jeito,                                                                          Só quem da fama já não colhe gozo,

Lhas arrancou alguém.                                                                                     Da morte sob o império?

Já não nos importa ir além.

 

Findaram os sofrimentos,                                                                              1020

As unhas renascerão,                                                                                       Professor

Da vítima memória e pensamentos

Murcham na ocasião.                                                                                       Qualquer professor

                                                                                                                             Para qualquer aluno

Este miserável segredo                                                                                     É um deus menor

Nos arrasa,                                                                                                         Que distante venera.

Frio.                                                                                                                      Com ele uno,

E nenhum credo                                                                                                 Quanto professor se altera

Ateia a brasa                                                                                                       E tenta prender o destino

Neste estio:                                                                                                         Em trejeitos de palhaço divino!

Queima-nos o deserto

Da distância aqui tão perto.

                                                                                                                            1021

                                                                                                                            Escolhe

1018

Aqui                                                                                                                   A família não se escolhe,

                                                                                                                            Temos;

Aqui não há direito, nenhum direito.                                                            Ao amigo que acolhe

Quem foi grande ignore-o, aqui não há grandes.                                        Escolhemos.

Aqui a vara fossa a eito

O curral

Das glandes:                                                                                                    

Um animal é um animal!                                                                                   

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

1022                                                                                                                    1026

Tudo                                                                                                                   Metas

 

Filho, não vais conseguir                                                                                Impõe-te metas

E teu máximo estás dando?                                                                             E corre atrás delas.

Persiste, pois quando                                                                                      Quando nelas te comprometas,

Tudo se empenha                                                                                             De mero espectador

É o porvir                                                                                                           Revelas

Que se ganha.                                                                                                   Que devieste participante-mor

                                                                                                                            Na aventura esquecida

                                                                                                                            Da vida.

1023

Nunca

                                                                                                                            1027

A verdade e a anedota                                                                                    Ingente

Não são nunca incompatíveis:              

As anedotas melhores                                                                                     Frequente

São verdade que se nota                                                                                 É apostar

E as verdades mais credíveis                                                                          Numa tarefa ingente

De anedotas os humores                                                                                Que nunca terá lugar,

Por vezes revestem.                                                                                         Definitivamente

A vida a sério                                                                                                   Preterida.

Não é um cemitério                                                                                          O que importa é projectar

De que me vingo,                                                                                             A meta que pode e vai ser atingida.

São os factos que se vestem                                                                          Tudo o mais falhou a vida.

Para as festas de domingo.

 

                                                                                                                            1028

1024                                                                                                                    Degraus

Adeus

                                                                                                                            Mais fácil é a tarefa se em degraus

Digo o adeus definitivo                                                                                   A meta a atingir for dividida.

A uma avó que foi querida                                                                             Primeiro a margem de além,

E de repente não vivo,                                                                                     Defronte aos vaus,

De mim faço a despedida.                                                                               Elege como primeira medida.

                                                                                                                            A seguir, porém,

Algo de feliz e jovem                                                                                       Determina, pedra a pedra,

Morre em mim,                                                                                                  Como a passada te medra

Feito de nadas que jamais se movem.                                                           Rumo ao sonho que proponhas

                                                                                                                            Que seja a vida que sonhas.

Permanece

A dor até ao fim:

O vazio jamais desaparece.                                                                             1029

                                                                                                                             Prazo

 

1025                                                                                                                     Para que a vida te prometa

Medonhos                                                                                                           Mais do que qualquer acaso,

                                                                                                                             Escolhe a meta,

Todos têm sonhos.                                                                                           Impõe-te um prazo.

O que nos provoca abalos

É que nos tornamos medonhos                                                                      Marca-te o prazo um limite

Se não aprendermos a realizá-los.                                                                   Para a busca

                                                                                                                             A que o agir te solicite

                                                                                                                             Do que no sonho te ofusca.

 

                                                                                                                             É uma seta

                                                                                                                             A que um alvo te deu azo:

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

Uma meta                                                                                                          1033

É teu sonho com um prazo.                                                                            Saída

                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                                            Não é a sede de infinito

1030                                                                                                                    Que nos atordoa:

Arrependimento                                                                                              - Quando não há saída para o grito,

                                                                                                                            Não há saída para a pessoa!

O arrependimento a sério

Pelo mal que nós causámos

É que nos dará o império                                                                                1034

Das mudanças que encetamos.                                                                     Fendas

 

Se, arrependido, partilhar                                                                               A água

A primavera após o inverno,                                                                         Não tem buracos, é lisa.

Ensino o mundo a retornar                                                                             Não sofre a mágoa

Do inferno.                                                                                                        Das fendas em que o mundo se eterniza.

                                                                                                                            Disfarçadas com papel,

                                                                                                                            As fendas e buracos deste mundo

1031                                                                                                                    Ei-los, a granel,

Perguntas                                                                                                         Cavando à minha frente

                                                                                                                            Um abismo dia a dia mais profundo.

Faz perguntas, que as pessoas                                                                      E eu que os não vejo, de recente

Vão achar-te fascinante                                                                                   Em tudo o que me seduz,

Se de si, das coisas boas                                                                                Eu que, fiel, junto meus cacos

Que tocam para diante                                                                                     Em demanda da luz

As incitas a falar.                                                                                              Que não tem buracos!

Ficam tão lisonjeadas

Que nem vêem, se calhar,

Quão estúpidas topadas                                                                                 1035

Na matéria, ao perguntar,                                                                                Belo

Tu vais dando.

- Quando                                                                                                            Pobre e frágil mundo!

Lhes ouves os interesses                                                                                Tudo é mais belo

Jamais então lhes esqueces,                                                                           Se ameaçado a fundo,

És um deus alumiando.                                                                                    Incluindo o débil elo

                                                                                                                             Que cada qual for.

 

1032                                                                                                                     Desabrochas, ágil

Labrego                                                                                                              Flor após a geada,

                                                                                                                             Desesperada-

Tão labrego                                                                                                        Mente corajosa e frágil.

Me sinto ante a gente-bem

Que não tenho sossego                                                                                   - E o Universo inteiro reza

Com a palha a sair-me das orelhas                                                                 A beleza.

E a penetrar além:

Nas atitudes

Doravante azelhas                                                                                            1036

Que as virtudes                                                                                                 Vaca

Vernáculas entre eles têm!

Todavia, valho o que valho,                                                                           É por dentro este lamento

Sei-o,                                                                                                                   Contra o que não está certo.    

E mais valho quando àquele meio                                                                  Sou a vaca apaixonada

Involuntário sirvo de soalho.                                                                         A mugir de tormento

Se troco da fantasia,                                                                                        No campo deserto:

Ainda um dia                                                                                                     - Não vale de nada!

Os atrapalho!

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

1037                                                                                                                    Onde acontece, profundo,

Culpa                                                                                                                 Devagar,

                                                                                                                            O novo mundo.

Aprende a pedir desculpa,

Que conquistas simpatia.

A culpa                                                                                                              1041

É muito má companhia.                                                                                   Quando

 

                                                                                                                            Quando ela apareceu,

1038                                                                                                                    Cri ter agarrado a vida

Descobrir                                                                                                          Nas mãos.

 

Em cada geração, cada escritor                                                                      Ao contrário, eu

Tem de descobrir a vida.                                                                                 Com a vida fiquei perdida

O tempo às convenções cria bolor,                                                               Na sementeira dos grãos.

O que era novo é já carcaça apodrecida.

Só a coragem duma voz                                                                                   Procurei onde prender-me,

Pode soprar a vida real                                                                                    Uma argola na arcada,

Soterrada em nós                                                                                              Mas depois de perder-me

Sob décadas de pó literário                                                                             Não encontrei nada.

Que nada vale:

Só a coragem inaugura o itinerário.                                                                Porém, ao procurar,

                                                                                                                             No gesto, no esforço,

                                                                                                                             Por mero azar,

1039                                                                                                                     De náufrago o meu escorço

Público                                                                                                                De revelar me acabou

                                                                                                                             O que, nem sei, mais procurava:

O público perfeito                                                                                             - Eu próprio, eu - breve sobrevoo

Do escritor                                                                                                         Sobre vulcões de lava!

É singular:

Basta um único leitor

Que o tome a peito                                                                                            1042

Sem o móbil insosso de criticar.                                                                      Cidades

 

Reveste-o então de pele                                                                                   As grandes cidades da desordem organizada,

E de lugar:                                                                                                           Da justiça demente em cada

Solitário inaugura nele                                                                                      Gregarismo frio,

O mistério a criar.                                                                                               Levam um homem a sentar-se, vazio,

                                                                                                                              Serenamente à lareira

                                                                                                                              Enquanto, à beira,

1040                                                                                                                      Um outro para o lado

Estropiá-los                                                                                                        Tomba selvaticamente assassinado,

                                                                                                                              Ignorado na esteira.

O medo dos sonhadores

Leva sempre a estropiá-los.                                                                              Ignorado, ignorado!

De que valem os penhores

Que lhes borbotam dos halos?

                                                                                                                              1043

Temos sempre mais apreço                                                                               Surdez

Pela banca, o capital,

Do que por quem paga o preço                                                                        Quando em ti ouço a surdez

Do que qualquer deles vale.                                                                             Duma voz que é uma pedrada

                                                                                                                               Perco minha solidez,

Quem lhes dá o dinheiro sonante                                                                    Corpo de alma esvaziada.

A ganhar

É quem levou o sonho por diante                                                                    Não sou lar de porta aberta,

Até àquele lugar                                                                                                 Ser eu próprio já nem tento,

                                                 

 

                                                                ======================================================================

 

Torno-me casa deserta                                                                                    Que seria dum artista

Por onde assobia o vento.                                                                              Da fome ao ferrão medonho?

                                                                                                                            - Vai pagar para que exista

Sem músculos e sem sangue,                                                                         Àqueles dando-lhes sonho.

Sem sentimentos, ideias,

Não há nada de que mangue                                                                          E no sonho é que, afinal,

No meio das tuas teias.                                                                                   Todos vêem seu fanal:

                                                                                                                            - Que um pão 

No fim                                                                                                                 Não é mais que dum sonho a encarnação!

Não fui eu só que perdi:

Se não resta nada em mim,

Nada restará de ti.                                                                                            1047

                                                                                                                            Secreto

Em mãos,

Do encontro que prometia,                                                                             Ter um código secreto

Lembramos, pelos desvãos,                                                                           Será mil vezes melhor

Que somos casa vazia.                                                                                    Que as palavras em concreto

                                                                                                                            Que apenas falam de cor.

 

1044                                                                                                                    Um código, porém,

Silêncio                                                                                                             Fala de mim

                                                                                                                            Sem

Teu silêncio grita                                                                                              Nenhum toque de clarim.

Com tal pavor

Que é palavra, mas maldita,                                                                            E quando a palavra então cala

É um silêncio ensurdecedor!                                                                          É quando em nós tudo fala.

 

                                                                                                                            Nela inauguro,

1045                                                                                                                    Inteiro, o futuro.

Cães

 

Os homens adoram cães                                                                                 1048

Por se verem ao espelho.                                                                                Visão

Por muito que tenham mães,

O casco velho                                                                                                   Não te pudera ver, não.

Não há educação com que caia.                                                                     Mas ouvir a tua voz

De manhã, quando ele saia,                                                                            Foi mesmo ter a visão:

Qualquer homem que se preze                                                                        Eras tu, éramos nós!

É normal que atrás despreze,

Ignorado,                                                                                                            E agora, na própria ausência,

O esterco que houver criado:                                                                          Vejo-te na voz redonda.

- Um poema, uma lancheira                                                                               Inundaste-me, na essência,

Ou outra amada lixeira                                                                                      Já não passo duma onda,

A que haja entregue o cuidado...

Ali ficará de lado,                                                                                              Onda de som em que, após

Tudo jogado no chão,                                                                                      Teu falar,

Tal qual como faz o cão.                                                                                   Nasce o mar

                                                                                                                              Dentro de nós

                                                                                                                              Com rotas demais abertas

1046                                                                                                                      A todas as descobertas.

Queda

 

Ter a queda para a arte                                                                                     1049

É ser um irresponsável,                                                                                    Sociedade

Quem trabalha é quem reparte

A comida sudável.                                                                                             A sociedade alinhou

                                                                                                                               Entre os homens tantos laços

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

(Cada qual ela enredou                                                                                    Se queres ter refrigério

Em leis, credos e embaraços,                                                                          Da vida na caminhada,

Nos totens e nos tabus),                                                                                 Não digas tua pobreza.

Que o homem se transformou,                                                                        Tua reza

Dos primevos puros nus,                                                                                Não é produto de venda

Num desvio à natureza                                                                                    No lugar.

Que a natureza criou,                                                                                        Di-la só a quem partilhar

Sobre que ninguém tem presa,                                                                       Contigo sua fazenda.

Que, de tanto variar,

Não há como controlar.

                                                                                                                            1054

É o fim, é o fim!                                                                                                 Louvores

E só nisto

É que existo:                                                                                                     As nossas bocas espalham

- É que lá me encontro a mim!                                                                        Os teus louvores

                                                                                                                            - Cantam as bocas que calham

                                                                                                                            Ao senhor dos senhores.

1050

Pisaduras                                                                                                          Porém, quando aquilo é lavrado

                                                                                                                            Na boca dum canhão,

Desperta o dia                                                                                                   Que louvor é que é cantado

Com as freimas rasgadas de agruras?                                                           Pelo trovão?

- À noite a casa acolhia,                                                                                  Que deus tem a sorte

Não o corpo, um acúmulo de pisaduras.                                                       Presa a tal boca de morte?

 

                                                                                                                             A verdade é que jamais houve um deus

1051                                                                                                                     Cujos canhões

Virtudes                                                                                                             Não hajam trovejado destruições

                                                                                                                             Aos céus.

As virtudes de tostão furado,

Quando querem convencer-se

De que valem dinheiro contado,                                                                     1055

Abocanham quanto se converse:                                                                   Mulher

Toda a honra é porcaria,

A grandeza é canalhice...                                                                                  O homem luta,

E não há sabedoria                                                                                            A mulher sonha

Que resista à sandice!                                                                                       E na medonha

                                                                                                                              Disputa

 

1052                                                                                                                      A fantasia

Lavra                                                                                                                    Gera os deuses

                                                                                                                              Que a mulher cria

O povo sempre se empala                                                                                 Na hora dos adeuses:

Quando a língua não entala

Porque o oiro que lhe convém                                                                          Tem a imaginação

Não o tem.                                                                                                            De voar ao infinito

De facto, quando o oiro fala,                                                                             Com a segunda visão

O mais cala.                                                                                                          Que dá corpo a cada grito.

- Por isso quem o País lavra

Jamais tem a palavra!                                                                                          Os deuses, como nós,

                                                                                                                               Vão nascer e morrer

                                                                                                                               A sós

1053                                                                                                                       No seio duma mulher.

Pobreza

 

A pobreza, mesmo honrada,                                                                             

Soa como vitupério.

 

 

                                                                ====================================================================== 

 

1056                                                                                                                    De quanto por ela invistas.

Palpites

 

Não imites                                                                                                         1061

Uma voz autorizada,                                                                                        Viagem  

Tenta imitar-lhe os palpites

Com que acerta na jogada.                                                                              A mística transcendência

                                                                                                                            É uma fé cuja vivência

                                                                                                                            Sempre caminha em viagem:

1057                                                                                                                    Alma e corpo em derrapagem

Outono                                                                                                               Fora do tempo e lugar

                                                                                                                            Onde a deus banalizar

É o Outono uma estação                                                                                 Qualquer representação

Do ano, como da vida,                                                                                    Que não bata ao coração.

Logo seguida,

Pelo Inverno, não,                                                                                            Exploradores

Antes pela espera                                                                                            Da noite pelos caminhos,

Da vindoira Primavera.                                                                                    Buscam os fulgores

                                                                                                                            Das rotas de que há rumores:

                                                                                                                            - São os nossos adivinhos!

1058

Insectos

                                                                                                                            1062

Nós somos todos insectos                                                                             Silêncio

Da terra nos figos lampos

E cremos, sem mais decretos,                                                                         Quando o crepúsculo chegar,

Sermos todos pirilampos.                                                                                Adense-o.

                                                                                                                             Repousar

O que seduz                                                                                                       Nas asas do silêncio

É a promessa                                                                                                     É o lugar

Dessa                                                                                                                  Da prova do fogo,

Luz.                                                                                                                     Quando importa navegar

                                                                                                                             Todo o mar em que me afogo

                                                                                                                             Da terra até ao confim,

1059                                                                                                                     Até ao confim de mim:

Exercício                                                                                                            Repousar, em meio ao grito

                                                                                                                             Do silêncio do infinito.

Quem diz que tempo não tem

Para o exercício físico

Convém                                                                                                              1063

Que mais cedo ou mais tarde                                                                          Natureza

O arranje e guarde                                                             

Para quando ficar tísico.                                                                                  Ainda há um século vivias

Convém                                                                                                              Comungando a Natureza,

Manter a calma,                                                                                                 Tu davas-te e recebias

Porém,                                                                                                                 Mais do que ela, uma surpresa:

Que anda já tísico de alma.                                                                              A ti próprio em inteireza.

 

                                                                                                                             Hoje em dia, a ligação,

1060                                                                                                                     Perdida pelo caminho,

Felizes                                                                                                                Tornou-se utilização

                                                                                                                             De lazer em que o carinho

Não aguardes que os demais                                                                          Não sabe a pão nem a vinho.

Sejam felizes por ti.

Ser feliz requer-te mais,                                                                                   

Como requer uma huri:                                                                                    

As conquistas                                                                                                   

 

                                               

                                                                ======================================================================

 

Lagos para navegar,

Montanhas para alpinismo,

Os vales de esqui lugar

E as florestas para o abismo

Em que me procuro e crismo.

 

Estudo

O perdido rumo:

- É tudo

Mero artigo de consumo!