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


1 Comments:

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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