| quarta-feira, junho 14, 2006
| VISITING THE BELOVED WIDOW OF THE DEAD POET
|"Books, papers," she said, "wherever I lay
my hand. Here the beginning of an unfinished poem
but here another that’s miraculously complete.
In this poem the sky was growing pale
and in this other one a street
came and went;
and such was our life together."
that seemed to come from very far
wandered in those rooms that silence had crushed.
But then she showed us a book that had stayed
open on his desk, the last one he had thumbed:
"He was seated there, reading this book,
and then we saw it slip away from his hands.
That was all."
And that’s what she said
concealing her face behind her hands as if
the shadow of a passing cloud had crumpled her features.
|posted by George Cassiel @ 9:31 da manhã
Um blog sobre literatura, autores, ideias e criação.
"Este era un cuco que traballou durante trinta anos nun reloxo. Cando lle
chegou a hora da xubilación, o cuco regresou ao bosque de onde partira.
Farto de cantar as horas, as medias e os cuartos, no bosque unicamente
cantaba unha vez ao ano: a primavera en punto."
Carlos López, Minimaladas (Premio Merlín 2007)
«Dedico estas histórias aos camponeses que não abandonaram a terra, para encher os nossos olhos de flores na primavera»
Tonino Guerra, Livro das Igrejas Abandonadas