terça-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2011

Like one of the most famous quotes about love goes:

“Love that is not madness is not love.”

The love ate my name, my identity, my portrait.
The love ate my certificate of age, my genealogy, my address.
The love ate my cards.
The love came and ate all the papers where I had written my name.

The love ate my clothes, my scarf, my shirts.
The love ate meters and meters of ties.
The love ate the measure of my suits, the number of my shoes, the size of my hats.
The love ate my height, my weight, the color of my eyes and of my hairs.

The love ate my medicines, my prescriptions, my diets. He ate my aspirins, my short-waves, my X-rays. He ate my mental tests, my examinations of urine.

The love ate in the bookcase all my books of poetry. He ate in my prose books the quotations in verse. He ate in the dictionary the words that might be joined in verses.

Hungry, the love devoured the utensils of my use: comb, razor, brushes, scissors of nails, penknife. Hungry still, the love devoured the use of my utensils: my cold health-resorts, the opera sung in the bathroom, the water heater of dead fire but that seemed a factory.

The love ate the fruit that was on the table. It drank the water of the metal adornments and of the jugs. He ate the bread of hidden purpose. It drank the tears of the eyes what, nobody the thrush, they were full of water.

The love returned to eat the papers where I had written my name.

The love gnawed my childhood, of dirty fingers of paint, hair never falling in the eyes, polished ankle boots.
The love ate away the elusive boy, always in the corners, and that it was marking the books, it was bitting the pencil, was walking in the street kicking stones. It gnawed the conversations, near the gas pump of the square, with the cousins who completely knew on birdies, on a woman, on marks of motorcar.

The love ate my State and my city. It drained the dead water of the mangrove swamps, abolished the tide. He ate the frizzy mangrove swamps and of hard leaves, ate the green acid of the plants of cane covering the regular hills cut by the red barriers, by the black train, by the chimneys. He ate the smell of cut cane and the smell of smell of the sea. He ate up to these things of which I was driving to despair because of not being able to talk about them in verse.

The love ate up to the days still not announced in the tear-off calendars. He ate the minutes of progress of my clock, the years that the lines of my hand were securing. He ate the future great athlete, the future great poet. He ate the future travels around the land, the future bookcases around the room.

The love ate my peace and my war. My day and my night. My winter and my summer. He ate my silence, my headache, my fear of the death.

Sem comentários:

Enviar um comentário