DÉCIMO  PRIMEIRO  VERSO

 

 

MEDE  PRECISA  ESTA  BANAL  PACIÊNCIA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Escolha aleatoriamente um número entre 1064 e 1177 inclusive.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1064                                                                                                                    O problema é que estafa...

Mede precisa                                                                                                    - E, depois, como ele abafa!

 

Mede precisa

Esta banal paciência                                                                                        1068

Que visa                                                                                                             Acontecer

Descortinar por trás da indolência

O sentido                                                                                                           Para onde quer que vá

Da espera                                                                                                           Jamais eu me irei perder

- Eis o que convido                                                                                          Nem tu, que jamais repoisas:

A intransigência                                                                                               Estamos cá

A descobrir no que era.                                                                                   Para acontecerem coisas,

Senão, em vez do futuro                                                                                  - Estamos sempre a acontecer!

Ergue um muro.

 

                                                                                                                             1069

1065                                                                                                                     Pureza

Impossível

                                                                                                                             Conflito de gerações,

Não se empenhe em atingir                                                                             Luta de classes,

O impossível.                                                                                                     Guerra...

Procure apenas subir                                                                                       Não são vítimas aos milhões,

O degrau visível.                                                                                              A tragédia dos impasses,

Então se espante:                                                                                             O que mais aterra.

- O impossível está diante!

                                                                                                                            É que uma ave engaiolada,

                                                                                                                            Se conquista a liberdade,

1066                                                                                                                    É recebida à bicada

Brinquedo                                                                                                         Pelas mais, quando da entrada

                                                                                                                            Nesta nova identidade:

Perde o medo,

Não a leves tão a sério,                                                                                   Como é que parece um mal

Que a vida, em qualquer lugar,                                                                      A pureza original?

É um brinquedo

De montar

Cujo mistério                                                                                                     1070

É convir por vezes sacrificar a rainha                                                            Luz

Quando ninguém pensava que convinha.

                                                                                                                             Que bom caminhar

                                                                                                                             Sobre luz!

1067                                                                                                                     O que seduz

Lata                                                                                                                     Num lugar

                                                                                                                             É que nos dê alta

Na grande cidade                                                                                              Da doença que mais demora:

A frialdade                                                                                                         - De luz esta falta

É que nos cadaveriza.                                                                                      De dentro para fora.

 

No bairro de lata

O que acata                                                                                                        1071

É a quente brisa                                                                                                 Exemplares

 

Do calor humano,                                                                                              Se os vivos são desnorteados,

Tão quente que é de rachar,                                                                            Insiste, não pares:

Tão intenso que me irmano                                                                             Como cadáveres adiados

Com o lugar.                                                                                                       São exemplares!

 

 

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

 

1072                                                                                                                    O fim do mundo

Humor                                                                                                               Até,

                                                                                                                            Quando o aprofundo,

O bom-humor                                                                                                   Às vezes o põe de pé.

Não convém

Que seja uma mesquinhez.                                                                             A escuridão eterna

É um gesto de amor                                                                                         Desanima,

Que uns aos outros nos atém,                                                                      Até que vejo nela a lucerna

Impedindo-nos, de vez,                                                                                  Que ilumina.

Do sorriso sob o império,

De encarar a vida demasiado a sério.

                                                                                                                           1077

                                                                                                                           Canibal

1073

Arcanos                                                                                                            Canibal

                                                                                                                           É quem come o vizinho,

No Natal,                                                                                                           Espiritual

No dia  de anos,                                                                                               É comê-lo em pão e vinho.

Na Páscoa, no Carnaval                                                                                  Real

Entremostram-se os arcanos.                                                                         E não fantasia

                                                                                                                            É sugar a mente dos escravos

A comida tem sabor,                                                                                        Tornados mercadoria

Mas sabe mais um bocado:                                                                            Sem agravos.

Sabe ao que sabe e, melhor,                                                                           E um auto de fé

Sabe ao seu significado.                                                                                 Assando a vida na fogueira

                                                                                                                            É antropofagia da vista até

                                                                                                                            Ao cheiro.

1074                                                                                                                    Tudo isto, primeiro,

Buraco                                                                                                               Começou em casa à lareira:

                                                                                                                            Quanto mais civilizados,

Convém                                                                                                             Mais os canibais andam mascarados.

Ver bem

A que me ataco

Para escapar dum lugar:                                                                                  1078

Se caí num buraco,                                                                                           Galanteio

É melhor parar de escavar!

                                                                                                                            De galanteio

                                                                                                                            Nem falo:

1075                                                                                                                    É tenteio

Perdido                                                                                                              De galo.

                                                                                                                            Eriça

Nada está perdido:                                                                                           As penas,

Apenas ocupa um lugar                                                                                  Enliça

Esquecido                                                                                                          As melenas.

Que não devia mais ocupar.                                                                           O que falo

                                                                                                                            Enriça

                                                                                                                            Nas pequenas!

1076                                                                                                                    Eu calo, eu calo...

Sempre

 

Uma ferida                                                                                                         1079

Permanente                                                                                                        Pena

Raramente

O é na vida.                                                                                                       Que pena,

                                                                                                                            Do génio quando morre a estrela!

                                                                                                                            Como a vida é pequena

                                                                                                                            Para ele viver nela!

 

 

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

 

1080                                                                                                                    1085

Asas                                                                                                                   Crê

 

Que importa voar                                                                                              Um homem de boa mente

Por cima das casas?                                                                                         Crê

Como as ideias não trepam de elevador,                                                       Em tudo quanto vê

Um homem que sabe pensar                                                                           E não vê quanto lhe mente.

Tem mais asas

Que qualquer animal voador.

                                                                                                                            1086

                                                                                                                            Façam

1081

Causa                                                                                                                 Façam lá revoluções

                                                                                                                            À vontade!

O mal                                                                                                                  Preguem a felicidade

São apenas os restos                                                                                       Aos aleijões!

De quanto nos custa:                                                                                       Imponham-na aos invertidos,

Pois não há poder que iguale                                                                          Da eternidade aos fanados,

O dos homens honestos                                                                                  Aos maridos traídos,

Por uma causa justa.                                                                                         Às viúvas dos soldados,

                                                                                                                             Aos paralíticos,

                                                                                                                             Aos impotentes,

1082                                                                                                                     Aos políticos

Banana                                                                                                               Decentes!

                                                                                                                             Lavem os imundos nos recintos,

Era uma vez                                                                                                        Dêem comer aos famintos!

Uma banana num cacho                                                                                   - Mas deixem à solta

Bem dentro dum bananal...                                                                              Esta  loucura criança

O meu revés                                                                                                       Que germina sempre em volta

É que, comendo-a, não acho                                                                           Destes a quem alcança:

Do mais nem vago sinal.                                                                                  Dos poetas, dos pintores,

- Que é do suor                                                                                                  Dos romancistas, dos escritores

Da vida?                                                                                                              Dos que são tão diferentes!

Do tratador                                                                                                         As heresias corta rentes

Que é da lida?                                                                                                    Se quiseres,

                                                                                                                             Mas deixa-mos, tristes e alegres,

                                                                                                                             Sem os tolheres,

1083                                                                                                                     A marchar contra as correntes

Tudo                                                                                                                    Do progresso que integres!

                                                                                                                             - Quem jamais pode pautar

Terei tudo,                                                                                                          A vida

Talvez...                                                                                                               Como em arte ter lugar

Já que, sobretudo,                                                                                             Quando perdida?

Ter tudo

Não é ter tudo duma vez.

                                                                                                                             1087

1084                                                                                                                     Além

Problemas

                                                                                                                            Além, muito além,

"Nada é eterno"                                                                                                O melhor de mim,

- É o melhor de nossos lemas:                                                                        Onde não chega ninguém.

Livra-nos do inferno                                                                                        A inércia me leva ao fim

Dos problemas!                                                                                                Por sendas que não são minhas,

                                                                                                                            Onde me revelo alheio

                                                                                                                            Doutrem nos traços e linhas

                                                                                                                            Que sou eu rasgado ao meio.

                                                                                                                            Nisto sou mas sem segredos,

 

 

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

 

É de mim que assim me corto:                                                                        1092

Revelado em meus degredos                                                                         Erro

Sou eu, sou, mas estou morto!

                                                                                                                            Ao erro, vence-o

                                                                                                                            O laboratório, as retortas

1088                                                                                                                    Rasgam-lhe no muro novas portas,

Liga                                                                                                                    Enquanto mastigam em silêncio

                                                                                                                            As palavras mortas.

Tão ligados, tão iguais!                                                                                  As palavras de esconjuro

- É sinal                                                                                                              Nunca derrubaram o muro.

Que a aflição os liga mais

Que qualquer amor carnal.

                                                                                                                            1093

                                                                                                                            Guerra

1089

Paz                                                                                                                      O pior da guerra

                                                                                                                             Não é estar em todo o lado.

Quem pode fazer o mal                                                                                     O que deveras aterra

E o não faz                                                                                                          É que, após alastrar no chão,

Ou é santo ou genial,                                                                                        Num bocado

Mas não nos garante a paz.                                                                             Chega ao coração

O mal de estrutura,                                                                                            E nada resta que a impeça

Quando o sei,                                                                                                     De trepar

Não o entrego à ventura:                                                                                 À cabeça

- Vergo-o à lei!                                                                                                   - E de no fim a levar!

 

 

1090                                                                                                                     1094

Diferença                                                                                                           Ávidas

 

Dois séculos foram precisos                                                                           Estas ávidas pessoas

Para os governos assinarem                                                                           Que se impõem os mais convencer

Do Túnel da Mancha os avisos.                                                                    De sua verdade pessoal!

Para o rasgarem,                                                                                                Quantas loas

Seis anos bastaram:                                                                                          Ao veneno a que nem sequer

É a diferença                                                                                                      Falta um aceno cordial,

Entre quem lavra sentença                                                                              Para nos matarem a infância,

E os que o mundo nos criaram!                                                                      Traiçoeiros!

                                                                                                                             Onde abandonámos a elegância

                                                                                                                             Dos medievos cavaleiros

1091                                                                                                                     Da tolerância?

Luta

 

Quando se luta                                                                                                  1095

Para salvar a vida,                                                                                             Fossa

Não há tempo para a disputa

Nem de tomar a medida                                                                                    Bombardeamos a cidade deles,

Do destino.                                                                                                        Mudamo-la numa fossa,

A autopreservação                                                                                           A fossa daqueles reles

Impõe o não                                                                                                       - E é uma estratégia sublime!

Ao desatino:                                                                                                      Quando são eles a bombardear a nossa

E a lei                                                                                                                   - É um crime!

Primeira,

Sobranceira,

De novo é rei.                                                                                                   

 

 

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

 

1096                                                                                                                    Arredondou-se, avessa,

Ainda                                                                                                                 Adelgaçou o tecido

                                                                                                                            Que a recama

Ontem tinha ainda                                                                                            De sentido:

Uma eternidade à minha frente.                                                                      - Que linda travessa

A manhã de hoje advinda,                                                                              Para uma cama!

Que fugaz é o presente!

E amanhã irei pensar

Que hoje ainda teria                                                                                         1100

Uma eternidade, devagar,                                                                               País

A gozar em cada dia.

                                                                                                                            Meu País

                                                                                                                            É uma boca que mastiga

1097                                                                                                                    E uma outra que engole em seco,

Burocracia                                                                                                       É um nariz

                                                                                                                            Que jamais se desobriga

A burocracia                                                                                                     Das quaresmas do que peco.

É aquela humanidade                                                                                      É um sobejo

Que torna mais desumana,                                                                             De gorduras para um lado

Dia a dia,                                                                                                           E, para o outro, de escassez.

Esta igualdade                                                                                                  É um bocejo

Que nos desirmana.                                                                                         Dum pescoço empapuçado

                                                                                                                            Que olha a magreza de viés.

 

1098                                                                                                                    Porém, tem modos:

Tanto                                                                                                                  - Que a sorte quando nasce

                                                                                                                            É para todos...

Tanto padre, tanta freira,                                                                                ...Os da nobre grei que pasce!

Todos casados com Deus!

Tanta, tanta voz fagueira

Perdida dos seus!                                                                                             1101

                                                                                                                             Invento

Todos entram na fileira

Por amor, mas não dos céus:                                                                           Dos homens qualquer invento

Por amor se este os inteira                                                                               Há-de sempre acabar cedo,

(Sem lugar a véus)                                                                                             Coisa de vento

                                                                                                                             Que mete medo.

Que na terra quem os queira

Não poderão encontrar.                                                                                    Porém, amanhã

Quem vai professar                                                                                            Ali se encontrará a chave

                                                                                                                              Que abre os portais da manhã

Quando um amor o requeira?                                                                           Onde o sol se grave.

- Tanto procuro por isto

E nunca vejo tal Cristo!...                                                                                  Para que em bem tudo acabe

                                                                                                                              Assim

                                                                                                                              Onde o Homem, por fim,

1099                                                                                                                      Jamais cabe.

Crina

 

A bela                                                                                                                  1102

Menina                                                                                                                Natural

Magricela

Sacudiu a crina:                                                                                                  És um homem natural

- Que donzela!                                                                                                    Em caminho pedonal,

                                                                                                                              Sem cascos de mula

                                                                                                                              Nem asas de gula?

 

 

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

 

- É afinal                                                                                                             1106

Natural                                                                                                               Medida

Que te vendas a pataco

Como outro qualquer macaco...                                                                      Há tanta coisa no céu

                                                                                                                             Que ninguém sabe explicar!

                                                                                                                             Pusesse-as alguém ao léu,

1103                                                                                                                     Outro era nosso lugar.

Mundo

                                                                                                                            A nossa sorte

Onde é que o mundo irá                                                                                  É a terra ter outra medida:

Da noite para o dia,                                                                                          No mundo tudo é morte

O Homem para onde o leva?                                                                           E vida.

- Deus sabia lá                                                 

Onde se metia                                                                                                   E ao fim tudo se deslinda,

Quando criou Adão e Eva!                                                                             A morte advinda.

 

 

1104                                                                                                                    1107

Ausência                                                                                                           Espreite

 

A tudo um homem resiste                                                                               Se Deus de alto vê tão mal

Menos de si à falência:                                                                                   Assim tudo,

- Não há nada mais triste                                                                                Então muito mais lhe vale

Que uma ausência!                                                                                          Vasculhar pelo miúdo

 

                                                                                                                            Este mundo por seu pé,

1105                                                                                                                    Sem medianeiro ou recado,

Povo                                                                                                                    Que não são de fazer fé.

                                                                                                                            É que ao longe aparvalhado

Um povo                                                                                                           

Que tanto espera do céu                                                                                 Se vê quanto é grande ao perto

E só na terra o renovo                                                                                     E só por óculo olhado

Busca a que vai chamar seu,                                                                          Se verá qual está certo.

Gente a laborar nos campos,

Nas aldeias derramadas,                                                                                 E não nos consta que Deus

Nas casas presas aos grampos                                                                     De óculo espreite dos céus.

Que as afixam às estradas,

Vai ao quintal ou às fontes,

Rouba uma sesta ao pinheiro,                                                                       1108

Um povo que não faz pontes                                                                         Começa

Para o dia derradeiro,

A um pau de nada se arrima                                                                           Novos, os conselhos

E nunca mais olha acima,                                                                                São de descobrir

Pela cerviz bem dobrado,                                                                                Tudo quanto houver.

Quando mesmo tem visões,                                                                           Velhos,

Sempre é um povo condenado:                                                                     O que está para vir

- Arreda-as como ilusões.                                                                              Começa a acontecer.

Do chão preso o olhar ao véu,                                                                      Nunca, porém, nos chega a idade

Perde as jeiras                                                                                                  Da verdade.

Pioneiras

Que há no céu.

 

 

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

 

1109                                                                                                                    - Mas quem tem juízo?

Pobre

 

Por mais que cobre,                                                                                         1113

Nunca a bolsa fica em alta:                                                                             Inteligentes

O pior pobre

É a quem o dinheiro não falta.                                                                        Como todos,

                                                                                                                            Os inteligentes sabem,

Rota a soca,                                                                                                      Porém, doutros modos.

Saco sem fundo,                                                                                               Mais que os mais

Entra-lhe o dinheiro à boca,                                                                            Sabem que sabem.

Defeca-o pelo mundo.                                                                                     Tanto às vezes que não cabem

                                                                                                                            Nos modos convencionais.

Sonhar com merda é dinheiro,                                                                        Amiúdo

Diz o povo,                                                                                                        Acreditam saber tudo.

Mas o dinheiro é que é merda,                                                                       Então, por arrogância,

Como inteiro aqui o comprovo,                                                                      Morrem mesmo de ignorância!

Aqui desta posição lerda

Com que o anoto e o ameio:

Que de cócoras é que convém                                                                       1114

Que trabalhe quem                                                                                           Marinheiro

Faz as contas do dinheiro alheio.

                                                                                                                             Marinheiro

                                                                                                                             Exausto do vasto mar,

1110                                                                                                                     Sem, mesmo por derradeiro,

Número                                                                                                               Nesga de terra alcançar,

                                                                                                                             Sou meu povo viageiro

É o número a menos exacta                                                                             A firmar-me no horizonte

De quantas coisas há no mundo,                                                                   Sem jamais encontrar ponte

Que cem sacos de batata                                                                                 Para o lar.

São tão cem, quando o aprofundo,                                                                Impede-me a ancestral ânsia

Como cem homens ou bestas.                                                                        Desta busca da distância

A diferença entre estas                                                                                    De aqui dentro me ancorar.

Notações                                                                                                            E é assim

Não é nenhuma                                                                                                 Que a mim nunca irei voltar.

- E assim dos homens dispões                                                                       Ai de mim!

Como quem sacas arruma!                                                                              Qual,

                                                                                                                            Afinal,

                                                                                                                            O país de meu lugar?

1111

Grito

                                                                                                                             1115

Grito                                                                                                                    Aparelhos

E o eco alcança-me de través.

É o infinito?...                                                                                                    Os aparelhos

- Infinito, infinito                                                                                              Que aliviam o trabalho

É o desta nossa estupidez!                                                                             Poupam-nos os gestos velhos,

                                                                                                                             O monótono atrapalho.

 

1112                                                                                                                     Requerem, porém, mais dinheiro,

Religião                                                                                                              Famílias de dois salários,

                                                                                                                             O trabalho a tempo inteiro,

Sal na comida                                                                                                     Segundos empregos vários.

É a religião,

Nem demais na medida,                                                                                  

Nem de menos, senão                                                                                     

O sal preciso.                                                                                                    

                                                

 

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

 

Assim é que desistimos                                                                                  1119

De tantos luxos do passado,                                                                          Estranho

E em troca vimos

O último engano inventado!                                                                          Entram e saem pessoas,

                                                                                                                            Colaboram na conversa,

                                                                                                                            Ordens, evasivas, loas,

1116                                                                                                                    Gesto e postura diversa...

Viagem                                                                                                              - Que mundo estranho e cruel

                                                                                                                            É o quartel!

Se, em viagem,                                                                                                  Contendo-o nela, nele contida,

Rejeitas a comida local,                                                                                   Que adversa

Ignoras o costume selvagem,                                                                        A vida!

Temes a religião ancestral,

Evitas qualquer pessoa,

- Não foi uma escolha boa,                                                                             1120

Melhor fora ter-te em casa.                                                                             Cativeiro

Pedra atirada à lagoa,

À superfície te molhas                                                                                     Às vezes um cativeiro

Sem jamais um golpe de asa                                                                           Verdadeiro

Para fazer parte da água,                                                                                 É preferível

Que em água tu te recolhas.                                                                           Ao outro, simulado,

Tua viagem dá mágoa:                                                                                    Que vivemos deste outro lado

Um corpo a correr na estrada                                                                         E nos é invisível.

Com a alma aqui parada!

 

                                                                                                                            1121

1117                                                                                                                    Responsável

Liberdade

                                                                                                                            Quem é o responsável,

Liberdade plena ninguém                                                                               Afinal?

Tem,                                                                                                                   Serão tantos, somos todos

As leis da linguagem                                                                                       Que é impensável,

Coagem,                                                                                                             Na dispersão universal,

A linguagem das leis ameia                                                                            Distinguir os modos

A teia.                                                                                                                De alguém.

Oprimidos pela sintaxe,                                                                                   - Aqui definitivamente

Às voltas com a rede social,                                                                          Trancado,

Nos limites do manto de gaze                                                                        Cada qual em si retém

Ainda nos mexemos, afinal.                                                                           A vítima inocente

Nestas grades, serenos,                                                                                 E o culpado.

É que tentamos ser plenos.

 

                                                                                                                           1122

1118                                                                                                                   Medo

Certeza

                                                                                                                           Não temos medo, não.

A única certeza                                                                                                O que temos é medo de ter medo.

É de sermos uns trambolhos                                                                         Esta inquietação

Sem recorte nem beleza,                                                                                 Em que me enredo:

Cujos antolhos                                                                                                Se um perigo surgir

Repetem a monotonia da rotina                                                                    Qual meu modo?

Que domina, domina                                                                                       Decente? A tremelicar? A fugir?

E com que ninguém atina.                                                                              Da incerteza no engodo

                                                                                                                           Finjo segurança,

                                                                                                                           Falo à toa, temerário.

                                                                                                                           E o que isto me alcança

                                                                                                                           É camuflar o medo primário

 

 

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

 

Que não tenho                                                                                                 Meu argumento de peso

E de que, afinal, me banho.                                                                            É um bocejo que desperte.

 

                                                                                                                           Ai de mim, ai de mim,

1123                                                                                                                   Como chegar um dia ao fim?

Ideias

 

Temos algumas ideias                                                                                    1126

Seguras.                                                                                                            Lixo

Recusamos as velhas teias

Agora impuras:                                                                                                Pobres diabos,

Há um século boas,                                                                                         Não valemos nada,

Hoje não valem nada.                                                                                     Mero lixo.

O pior é que nossas tão sápidas broas                                                        Como podem distinguir-nos os nababos?

Também nos arcanos                                                                                      Ao lixo acostumada,

Da poeirada                                                                                                      Esta gente pisa-nos às cegas

Se esboroarão dentro de anos.                                                                     O nicho:

Entretanto                                                                                                         Somos o pó das pregas

Valem tanto, tanto, tanto,                                                                               Que acumulam nas estradas,

Que nem vemos a ironia:                                                                                Entre bichos nem um bicho,

Como tudo é fantasia!                                                                                     Só poeiras entranhadas.

                                                                                                                            Lixo varrido

                                                                                                                            Para as bermas do olvido.

1124

Receio

                                                                                                                            1127

Pior receio                                                                                                          Indiferença

É o de me deixar ir,

Mera leviandade a meio                                                                                  Nenhum sinal de protesto

Das correntes do devir.                                                                                   Nem compaixão.

Tornar-me alucinação                                                                                      Indiferença de homm honesto

A ponto de confundir                                                                                      Cujo apresto

Um motor de combustão                                                                                 O defende da contaminação.

Com uma metralhadora.

E não saber                                                                                                        Perante a guerra e a fome,

Se já me não fui embora                                                                                   Minhas fontes secas,

Fantasmas a revolver,                                                                                      Uns frangalhos que nenhum uso consome,

Perigos inconsistentes                                                                                    Nem o faminto come

A desconfiar onde aprouver,                                                                          Tais frutas pecas.

Revoltas dementes...

- Que é que alcança,                                                                                         Desgraçados egoísmos

Em mim, a criança?                                                                                            Do pavor,

                                                                                                                             Somos uns anacronismos,

                                                                                                                             Os arcaísmos

1125                                                                                                                     De que viveria o amor.

Medonho

                                                                                                                             E aqui andamos reduzidos

O mais medonho                                                                                                Nos mercados

É que somos prisioneiros                                                                                 A estes grãos de pó caídos

Que tememos o sonho.                                                                                     Que jamais são levantados.

Bem nos cremos pioneiros,

Porém, o movimento

De qualquer mudança enerva.                                                                        1128

Com que menos me atormento                                                                       Sequer

É com ficar de reserva.

E assim continuo preso,                                                                                  Sei que morro,

Inerte.                                                                                                                 Não há problema:

 

 

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

 

Toda a vida para ali corro,                                                                              1132

É o meu lema.                                                                                                    Repente

- Duro mesmo é nem sequer

Ver para que é que irei morrer.                                                                       Como é que a dona de casa assustada

                                                                                                                            E gorda

                                                                                                                            Trepa de repente a encumeada

1129                                                                                                                    Nas neves do píncaro acorda?

Mundo

                                                                                                                            Subindo degraus pequenos

Dum homem a mulher                                                                                      De cada vez:

Quer                                                                                                                   É a forma de pesar menos

Que lhe abra o mundo,                                                                                    O terror de nos falharem os pés.

Ou que a liberte

Dum mundo infecundo                                                                                   A ideia de fracassar

Que a aperte.                                                                                                    É que mais nos paralisa:

Que lho tire de ao pé                                                                                       Não do fracasso o lugar

Ou que lho dê.                                                                                                  Mas dele o que se não divisa.

Não vê

A terceira alternativa,

No fundo:                                                                                                          1133

A maioria, cativa,                                                                                             Basta

Perde é de vez o mundo.

                                                                                                                            A vida

                                                                                                                           Está mesmo a começar,

1130                                                                                                                    Basta apenas derribar

Adolescente                                                                                                      Aquela barreira erguida.

 

Adolescente                                                                                                     Algo

É quem não aprendeu ainda                                                                          Há primeiro a resolver

E corre, inocente,                                                                                             Para depois soltar o galgo

A vida ingenuamente linda.                                                                           Da vida inteira a correr.

Até ao âmago viver

Chocando contra todos,                                                                                 Um assunto a tratar,

Eis o modo sem modos                                                                                    Dar tempo ao tempo um pouco

De ele ser.                                                                                                          E acordarei noutro lugar,

Antes que o sonho se apague,                                                                      A nada mais serei mouco.

Que os barcos da aventura adornem,

Quem lhe ensina o ziguezague                                                                       Aí, creio, nesse dia

Que os escolhos contornem?                                                                         Então a vida principia...

 

                                                                                                                            - Quando é que, finalmente,

1131                                                                                                                    Acabarei por entender

Problema                                                                                                           Que os obstáculos são, evidente,

                                                                                                                            A minha vida a ser?

O problema adolescente

É que nos não deixa a sós

Esquecendo-nos de nós                                                                                  1134

Ou daquilo que, evidente,                                                                               Casa

Em tempos fomos

E não somos.                                                                                                     Tanta vez mudei de casas,

                                                                                                                             Onde é que fica meu lar?

Não são de adolescentes as histórias,                                                          Decerto não é o lugar

- São as nossas memórias!                                                                              Onde o pardal fechou asas.

 

 

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

 

Quanto mais velho                                                                                           1138

Mais o canto onde cresci,                                                                               Responsabilidade

De meus pais ouvi conselho

Se torna o meu lar em si.                                                                                  Ele adora-te, gostas dele:

                                                                                                                             A enorme responsabilidade

Os demais                                                                                                          Tira-vos a liberdade

Serão lar de mais alguém,                                                                                Tanto quanto vos impele.

De mim, não, que as sucursais

Não têm o que a sede tem.                                                                              Não há como sair do apuro

                                                                                                                            Sem temor:

                                                                                                                            Liberdade sem amor

1135                                                                                                                    É um deserto, não um futuro.

Medos

                                                                                                                            O pior é no mundo ninguém ter mão

Quase todos                                                                                                     Na gradual desertificação.

Temos medos.

Disfarçamo-los de diferentes modos,

Mas todos sabemos os segredos:                                                                1139

Como é fina a crosta                                                                                        Voz

Cheia de cepticismo                                                                                    

Que tapa a boca do abismo                                                                            Não há consenso

A que cada qual se encosta!                                                                          Sobre o que será voz de mulher,

                                                                                                                            Excepto se o concito quando penso

                                                                                                                            Que se deve calar toda e qualquer.

1136                                                                                                                    Seja ingenuidade

Entornara                                                                                                          Ou moda,

                                                                                                                            - Isto é que em verdade

Ao longo da margem passearam                                                                   Incomoda!

Longamente

E à luz do poente,

De comboio, finalmente,                                                                                 1140

Debandaram.                                                                                                     Requer

 

Ficou a impresão                                                                                              O escritor tempo requer

De que alguma luz se entornara                                                                     A viver devagar,

Dela na emoção                                                                                                Conversar:

Da cara                                                                                                               Solidão

E nele ao murmurar "meu bem!",                                                                    E um estímulo qualquer.

Também.

                                                                                                                             Então

                                                                                                                             Por que é ponto assente

1137                                                                                                                     Que um dia de lazer, vazio,

Amor                                                                                                                   Represente

                                                                                                                             Um vadio?

O amor

Não pode ser encomendado.

Dor                                                                                                                      1141

Que doi tudo em nenhum lado,                                                                       Salta

É tão ingovernável

Como a luz                                                                                                          Salta a palavra

E igualmente seduz,                                                                                          Da folha impressa

Inevitável.                                                                                                          E lavra que lavra

                                                                                                                             Cada vez mais depressa.

Amor, o assunto

Deste trágico caminho                                                                                   

Em que caminho em conjunto                                                                       

Sozinho.                                                                                                            

 

 

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

 

Talvez haja alguma coisa                                                                                Poemas sentidos

Por detrás do muro                                                                                          Como uma chuva de dentes partidos.

Da palavra onde repoisa                                                                                 Contudo, espero, espero...

O que de mim tenho inseguro.                                                                       É infinitamente maior

                                                                                                                            Que qualquer inevitável desespero

Mas qual o alcance da torrente                                                                     O amor

Se no fim tudo me mente?                                                                              Ou seja lá o que for

                                                                                                                           Que quero.

 

1142

Explicação                                                                                                         1145

                                                                                                                            Peso

Explicação, há,

Um rosário de explicações                                                                              - Pai,

E nada explicado ficará.                                                                                  Por que se retorcem tanto

Até por explicações haver                                                                             As árvores velhas?

Mais explicações haverá.                                                                               - É que delas sai

Juntas todas as razões,                                                                                  O encanto,

Nenhuma nos dá                                                                                             A magia

O que houver                                                                                                   De ancestrais ninhos sob as telhas

Para saber.                                                                                                        E elas vergam ao peso da sabedoria

                                                                                                                           Que em séculos, milénios de desditas

E muito menos,                                                                                                As tornam eruditas.

Já que somos tão pequenos,

O ser

De qualquer                                                                                                     1146

Ser.                                                                                                                    Terra

                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                           Terra! Terra! Sepulcro vivo

1143                                                                                                                   Pejado de mortos que respiram,

Fantochada                                                                                                       Cada qual em si cativo,

                                                                                                                           Que os mais dele já fugiram.

Convívio, civilidade,

O incenso e as orações,                                                                                 Terra, mundo deserto:

A balbúrdia e quanto agrade                                                                        Para quenquer só ele existe,

Será tudo fantochada,                                                                                    Por mais que o mais more perto

Gira tudo aos tropeções                                                                                 Não tem corpo nem resiste.

Em redor dum ponto tredo

Que nos espeta a facada:                                                                              Tantos olhos nas estrelas,

- Temos medo!                                                                                                Tantos a trepar o morro,

                                                                                                                           Tantas preces, tantas velas...

Se houvera razões de amar                                                                            - Todos pedimos socorro!

Respeitar-me então pudera,

Se um naco de fá houvera,                                                                            Por fim, não há mais querelas:

Seria a paz de alcançar...                                                                                - Morre tudo quando morro!

 

Como, porém, tecer encómio

De egoístas a este manicómio?                                                                    1147

                                                                                                                          Búfalo

 

1144                                                                                                                  Nós

Ternura                                                                                                           Rogamos da cama a praga,

                                                                                                                          Corremos a casa e o mundo

Somos tão desajeitados                                                                                Como um búfalo feroz

Que os versos da ternura                                                                             Que persegue, estranho, a paga:

Nos saltam da boca pelos lados.                                                                 O arco-íris que foge ao fundo,

O amor apura                                                                                                  Na crista da vaga

                                                                                                                          

 

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

 

Que varre a pradaria...                                                                                    1150

- E da ilusão nada nos alivia!                                                                        Atrai

 

                                                                                                                           Que é que nos atrai na vida,

1148                                                                                                                   Qual é a vida que atrai?

Ideia                                                                                                                  Uma pessoa é atraída

                                                                                                                           Pelo que ao ignoto vai.

A ideia                                                                                                               Embora toda esta via

Da palavra segue o rumo                                                                               Desconhecida

Como um rio que na cheia                                                                             Seja mera fantasia,

Nas escarpas estrondeia,                                                                               Será sempre a derradeira

Aos céus elevando fumo                                                                               Gavinha que na videira

Da garganta estrangulada.                                                                            Será um dia

As paredes resistentes                                                                                  Destruída.

Canalizam, na passada,

Tumultuoso, o caudal

Que nasce lá nos dementes                                                                          1151

Caboucos do tremedal                                                                                   Cinzas

Que em nossa alma moram fundos,

Raízes de novos mundos.                                                                             As serranias e vales,

A função                                                                                                          Os alcantis e as planuras

Da palavra é ser assim                                                                                   Mais são cinzas em que iguales,

Inflexível, sufocante,                                                                                      Cadavérico, as misturas

Para impor a contenção                                                                                 De que é feita a Terra inteira.

À energia, ao frenesim,                                                                                  O mistério

Senão era o abismo hiante                                                                            É que vivemos à beira

Que o mundo destruiria                                                                                 Deste imenso cemitério

Quanto a si próprio o faria.                                                                           Alimentando as retortas

Uma ideia encapelada                                                                                    Com todas as coisas mortas.

Desta continuada luta                                                                                   No fim, a bandeira erguida

O que espera, o que desfruta                                                                       É a vida!

É uma erosão consumada.

E ao triunfo da erosão

É que chamamos razão,                                                                                 1152

Casamento singular                                                                                        Razões

Entre a ideia e a palavra

Em que, em vez de irem a par,                                                                        Quem se não deixa matar

Uma à outra se escalavra.                                                                              Quando razões sobrem de morrer

Tornar-se um homem um homem                                                                  É uma vergonha de homem.

São contradições que assim                                                                          Há-de continuar

Vividas até ao fim                                                                                            A viver

Nos consomem.                                                                                               Mesmo quando se lhe consomem

                                                                                                                            Membros, coração

                                                                                                                            E cabeça.

1149                                                                                                                    Assim, porém, todos agem,

Porrada                                                                                                             Não por falta de coragem,

                                                                                                                            Mas por falta da imaginação

Na TV, na discoteca,                                                                                       Que o tamanho lhes meça

No bar reina tal demência                                                                               E, na hora devida,

Que quem é bom é quem peca                                                                       Lho peça

Com porrada à inteligência.                                                                            Cobrando-lhes a vida.

E, se a cultura anda peca,

Anda-o desta concorrência.

Tal é a seca                                                                                                      

Que nos cultiva de ausência

Uma Terra já careca

Num deserto de carência.

 

 

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

 

1153                                                                                                                  Os bilhetes para as idas,

Inocência                                                                                                         As estações, os destinos,

                                                                                                                          Os carris, as avenidas,

A inocência sublime!                                                                                     Tudo ao fim são desatinos.

O milagre verdadeiro

É a multidão                                                                                                     Quando dizemos o adeus

Não se prostrar o chão                                                                                  Não há pressa ou lentidão,

Que dali a redime                                                                                            Não há carro ou avião:

Por inteiro,                                                                                                       - Acabou-se! E os sonhos meus

No rasto das pegadas                                                                                   Tudo foi uma ilusão...

Que ela imprime

Imponderáveis.

O milagre é ser ela de carne e osso:                                                            1156

A inocência pisa nas calçadas                                                                    Joelhos

Vulneráveis,

Não é uma estátua nem flor,                                                                         De joelhos, na rua,

Não é um colosso,                                                                                          Chamámos-lhe deus.

Não é pedra preciosa.                                                                                    Era a minha vez, era a tua

E é, contudo, a melhor                                                                                   E abriram-se os céus.

Jóia de que o mundo goza.

                                                                                                                          Depois

                                                                                                                          Apareceram outros deuses,

1154                                                                                                                  Do grande deus nasceram dois

Explicam                                                                                                          E começaram os adeuses...

 

Os Universos explicam                                                                                  Mas um deus é só um deus

E Deus Todo-Poderoso,                                                                                E assim demos cabo dos céus:

- Todavia a si próprios ignoram e complicam.

Dão, porém, nas vistas                                                                                  - Há só um, há só um

Os cientistas.                                                                                                  E acabámos com tantos sem nenhum!

Nada entendem do numinoso:

Remexem-lhe as entranhas,

Capturam micróbios invisíveis,                                                                    1157

Da raiva e do ciúme sondam as manhas,                                                    Profetas

Encontram os astros mais incríveis

                                                                                                                           Não morremos nas valetas

                                                                                                                           Por nos perdermos pelos desvãos.

Na distância...                                                                                                  Sempre há quem aponte as metas,

E nada mais custoso que a ânsia                                                                  O problema é dos chãos:

Inelutável com que acabem                                                                           - É que nós temos profetas

Admitindo que nada sabem.                                                                         Com lama nas mãos!

O pior é que, quando o admitam,

É num verbo tão complexo

E desconexo                                                                                                     1158

Que os não acreditam!                                                                                    Dinheiro

 

                                                                                                                           Dinheiro não dá guarida.

1155                                                                                                                   Mais vale uma vida

Bússola                                                                                                             Pobre e descansada

                                                                                                                           Que rica e forçada.

A bússola aponta um caminho                                                                     Que me importa a taça de oiro

E a viagem pode rumar,                                                                                  Se o meu sangue dela escorre,

Discriminando o seu do vizinho,                                                                  Se me transmudo no toiro

Pelo trilho de qualquer lugar.                                                                        Que morre

                                                                                                                           Na arena?

                                                                                                                           - Não vale a pena!

 

 

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

 

1159                                                                                                                   1162

Amores                                                                                                             Frágil

 

Os amores acordam,                                                                                        Como é frágil a vida

Amores abrem janelas...                                                                                 E seu mistério profundo!

- Como é que tantos acabam nas vielas?                                                     Tanto custa a despedida

Ora emagrecem ora engordam,                                                                      Que nunca o será sequer:

Quando os amores nos mordam                                                                   Custa mesmo a morrer

Jogam-nos ao chão ou às estrelas.                                                              O mundo!

Vulcão

Que o fogo desentranha de cada torrão,

É lava que escorre:                                                                                          1163

A impulsão                                                                                                       Sós

Que a atirou ao céu,

A força breve perdeu                                                                                      Querem-nos sós,

E logo morre.                                                                                                    Que à solidão a requer

O amor sou eu:                                                                                                 A santidade.

Pedaço de tempo que corre.                                                                           Antes ignoram e após

                                                                                                                            Que a tentação maior vai ser

                                                                                                                            Quanto maior a soledade.

1160

Feliz

                                                                                                                            1164

"Feliz é quem é o mais forte,                                                                           Céu

O mais sábio ou o mais rico,

Quem é amado até à morte                                                                              O céu

E não ama, de tal sorte                                                                                     Não fica abaixo nem acima

Que de amor não tem salpico"                                                                        De nós.

 

- É o saber dos animais                                                                                    Sou eu,

A que os brejos são pequenos.                                                                     Simultâneo em todos os ilhós

De facto, jamais                                                                                                 Do tempo e do espaço, feito clima.

O coração é demais,

Pode é haver cabeça a menos.                                                                        Eu, tornado o real

                                                                                                                             Progenitor final

                                                                                                                             De todos os avós.

1161

Disciplina

                                                                                                                             1165

A disciplina                                                                                                        Trenó

Importa à vitória,

Inclina                                                                                                                  Matilha de cães atrelados,

À glória.                                                                                                              Puxamos o trenó da vida

                                                                                                                              Sempre em frente, nunca aos lados.

Ao invés, desintegrador                                                                                   E os lados se esvaem de fugida.

É o efeito

Da vitória sobre quem for                                                                                 Por isso é que tanta gente

Indisciplinado e sem jeito:                                                                                Devém telhuda:

                                                                                                                              Se não for o cão da frente,

Na euforia                                                                                                            A paisagem nunca muda.

Sem conta,

Perde quanto o elevaria

E a vitória nele é tonta.                                                                                     

 

 

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

 

1166                                                                                                                    1170

Metade                                                                                                               Louco

 

Razão ter das vezes a metade                                                                         Julgam-te louco

É melhor                                                                                                             Porque desmontas a tenda,

Que metade da razão se propor                                                                      Trepas todo o dia mais um pouco

Quando tê-la inteira se há-de.                                                                         A montanha que diante se desvenda

                                                                                                                             E de novo a tenda

O tempo inteiro com  razão a meias                                                                Ao fim do dia montas.

É de vez tolher-me dos erros nas teias.                                                         Porém, apontas

                                                                                                                             Que louco ninguém te crê

                                                                                                                             Quando cada manhã vê

1167                                                                                                                     Que voas para o trabalho

Preces                                                                                                                A dar cartas ao baralho,

                                                                                                                             E tornas ao fim do dia

O problema das preces                                                                                     A tua casa vazia.

É que buscam adiantamentos

Sem fundamentações:                                                                                      Ou será que nisto, igualmente,

Querem benesses                                                                                             Cada qual aquilo sente?

Com argumentos

De boas intenções.

                                                                                                                             1171

                                                                                                                             Decadência

1168

Vivaz                                                                                                                   A decadência

                                                                                                                             É sempre o tardio fruto

Um espírito vivaz                                                                                              De instalar-nos na evidência.

Devia ser um manjar                                                                                         Do conformismo é o produto

Raro como o caviar                                                                                           Com o mundo da injustiça 

De que ninguém é capaz                                                                                  Cuja canção nos enguiça.

De espalhar                                                                                                        Traído, o justo

Nenhuma grossa talhada                                                                                 É quem fará pagar o custo.

Como faz

À marmelada.

                                                                                                                             1172

O espírito não é como se fosse                                                                       Escravos

Um mero doce.

                                                                                                                             Eternos escravos

                                                                                                                             Do esplendor de ideias feitas,

1169                                                                                                                     Consolam-nos nossos favos

Meta                                                                                                                    Deste mel com doces travos

                                                                                                                             E tais maleitas

Se luto por uma meta,                                                                                       Que nos impedem

Pela meta não pergunto.                                                                                  De ver a nossa ignorância.

Difícil numa dieta                                                                                              Antecedem

É não lhe tocar no assunto                                                                              À distância

Ao respeitá-la discreta.                                                                                    Cada era e cada idade

Se me atropelo,                                                                                                  Vivendo dia a dia

O que sou e o que serei                                                                                   A nossa imensa profundidade

Nunca mais consigo sê-lo.                                                                              Ludibriadamente vazia.

É a lei

Do desvelo:

Só ignoto me revelo.                                                                                       

 

 

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

 

1173                                                                                                                    Tudo uma questão de trocos.

Existencial

 

És um problema existencial:                                                                            1176

Não tens capitalismo,                                                                                      Sorte

Por mais cultural,

Nem cientismo, nem tecnicismo                                                                     Importa colher a sorte,

Que te dêem aval.                                                                                             Dar rumo a coisas pequenas,

                                                                                                                            Os casos de vida ou morte

Porém, tens a licença                                                                                       São equívocos apenas.

Do mercado,

Compras-te e vendes-te ao lado:                                                                   No destino

Não tens mais                                                                                                   É sempre proibida a entrada.

Sentimento de pertença                                                                                  Tomar tino

Nem a ti nem aos demais.                                                                                É responder-lhe à chamada.

 

- E se um dia qualquer

Da pertença não houver                                                                                  1177

Então mais quaisquer sinais?                                                                          Saturado

 

                                                                                                                             A dada altura

1174                                                                                                                     Saturado de factos,

Seita                                                                                                                    Ficas imobilizado.

 

Suicidas-te na seita                                                                                           A cura

E não vês que és um fanal                                                                               Requer que descontraias os teus actos

De loucura universal.                                                                                        Ao sabor do fado:

Ou talvez não,                                                                                                    Cuidas, por junto,

Que a loucura à vida é afeita,                                                                          Nem pensar mais no assunto.

Saboreia-lhe o sabor.                                                                                        Acordas então,

Então,                                                                                                                  Ao acordar em ti a intuição:

É que o mal em ti começa                                                                                 Descobres a luz 

Com a pressa                                                                                                     Que te traduz.

De assaltar um outro mundo

Melhor.

Mergulhas até ao fundo

Do repúdio sem apelo deste.

- Só que morres de tal peste

Sem que reste alternativa

Que alguém viva.

 

 

1175

Tecto

 

Um tecto de hipermercado

Sobre ti cai,

Novo campanário sagrado

Que a romaria atraiu

E trai.

A tragédia aconteceu

Como na missa do dia

O deus salvador morreu,

Só que aqui paramentou-se

Com vestes de economia.

Tal como se o credo fosse,

Num mundo de loucos,