sexta-feira, 30 de maio de 2014

ENSEADA DE PALAVRAS



Ouvirei passos de vento
Virão ao meu encontro gaivotas azuis
Trago no peito uma hortência fresca de junho
Trago na mão uma verdade que empunho

Quando as aves cantam ao entardecer
Fico-me pela ramagem da nostalgia
Sinto os prodígios da música feliz
Este homem, este poeta, este petiz

Correm nas horas palavras como amoras
Um rosto atravessa isolados prados na vida
Deixei de plantar carinho, quando não me querem
Fechei a ternura numa caixinha devolvida

Quem és!?
Para onde correm os teus anseios?
Os meus olhos apenas recolhem cânticos de silêncio
Já não navego na Baia de todos os medos

Uma pequena pedra, a sorte...?!
A fé que me guia e me dá norte
Pedra na voz de uma menina
Não há melancolia, recomeçarei, não há morte!

Nos bolsos de um espantalho encontrei
Um papel que dizia assim:
“Nesta ilha descobri teus olhos
No acreditar voltarás para mim”

Se falassem estas mãos diriam
Ouve a voz imensa da terra
Que nunca morra a saudade
Que se instaure uma real verdade

São brancos os meus sentires
É alva a minha dorida alma
Que ninguém me trate mais como: “és mesmo assim”
Que se fechem os impuros corações que se lembram de mim

Eu já existia na ausência do teu nome
Sou um menino sem revolta ou mágoas
Nestas ultimas e felizes horas
Habitei numa...Enseada de Palavras...

13 comentários:

Anónimo disse...

Echaba de menos...
palabras hermosas.
El amor era aquello,
mas los poetas,puede ser,
o puede no ser,
no saben amar como saben decir,
y luego...
luego se quedan vacíos,
en silencio...
sin amor y...
y...
al no sentir amor...
al no sentir...
al no poder amar..
al no poder...
sentirse...
amarse...
reconocerse...
se extrañan...
no se reconocen...
y...
huyen...
huyen...
huyen...
huyen de los otros porque...
no soportan ese extraño que los mira, que los contempla, que los escudriña...
que los habita.

Bella ensenada, bellas palabras, poeta.

Un abrazo

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Kátia disse...

Amigo suas palavras soam com tristeza,mas ainda assim continuam belas.

Desejo que esteja bem!
Beijos!

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