em dia de Natal

It was Christmas Eve, babe In the drunk tank An old man said to me "Won't see another one" And then he sang a song 'The Rare Old Mountain Dew' I turned my face away And dreamed about you Got on a lucky one Came in eighteen-to-one I've got a feeling This year's for me and you So, Happy Christmas I love you, baby I can see a better time When all our dreams come true "They've got cars big as bars They've got rivers of gold But the wind goes right through you; It's no place for the old When you first took my hand On a cold Christmas Eve You promised me Broadway Was waiting for me "You were handsome!" "You were pretty Queen of New York City" When the band finished playing They howled out for more Sinatra was swinging All the drunks, they were singing We kissed on a corner Then danced through the night The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing 'Galway Bay' And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day "You're a bum, you're a punk" "You're an old slut on junk Lying there almost dead On a drip in that bed" "You scumbag, you maggot You cheap lousy faggot Happy Christmas, your arse I pray God it's our last" The boys of the NYPD choir Still singing "Galway Bay" And the bells are ringing out For Christmas day "I could have been someone" "Well, so could anyone You took my dreams from me When I first found you" "I kept them with me, babe I put them with my own Can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you" The boys of the NYPD choir Still singing "Galway Bay" And the bells are ringing out For Christmas day

série "matching" de Stefan Draschan - LXXX

um poema de... Sophia Mello Breyner (na chegada do Inverno)

I

Poesia de Inverno: poesia do tempo sem deuses
Escolha
Cuidadosa entre restos

Poesia das palavras envergonhadas
Poesia dos problemas de consciência das palavras

Poesia das palavras arrependidas
Quem ousaria dizer:
Seda nácar rosa

Árvore abstracta e desfolhada
No inverno da nossa descrença


II

Pinças assépticas
Colocam a palavra-coisa
Na ilha do papel
Na prateleira das bibliotecas


III

Quem ousaria dizer:
Seda nácar rosa

Porque ninguém teceu com suas mãos a seda - em longos dias em
compridos e com finos sedosos dedos

E ninguém colheu na margem da manhã a rosa - leve e pesada faca
de doçura
Pois o rio já não é sagrado e por isso nem sequer é rio

E o universo não brota das mãos dum deus do gesto e do sopro dum
deus da alegria e da veemência dum deus

E o homem pensando à margem do destino procura arranjar licença
de residência na caserna provisória dos sobreviventes


IV

Meu coração busca as palavras do estio
Busca o estio prometido das palavras