søndag, april 3

hannah and her sisters

só mesmo num filme de woody allen, numa livraria em manhatann, alguém insiste oferecer a outra um livro de e.e cummings.
página 112, recomenda-se. lê atentamente a página 112, esse poema faz-me lembrar de ti.
justamente um dos meus poemas:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands


Blogger Luís Filipe Cristóvão apalavrou que ...

um homem encantado por umas mãos pequenas. como eu o compreendo.

mandag, april 04, 2005 11:00:00 a.m.  

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