Aproveitar o tempo!

Tirar da alma os bocados precisos – nem mais nem menos –
Para com eles juntar os cubos ajustados
Que fazem gravuras certas na história
(E estão certas também do lado de baixo que se não vê)…
Pôr as sensações em castelo de cartas, pobre China dos serões,
E os pensamentos em dominó, igual contra igual,
E a vontade em carambola difícil.
Imagens de jogos ou de paciências ou de passatempos –
Imagens da vida, imagens das vidas. Imagens da Vida.

Aproveitar o tempo!
Ah, deixem-me não aproveitar nada!
Nem tempo, nem ser, nem memórias de tempo ou de ser!…
Deixem-me ser uma folha de árvore, titilada por brisa,
A poeira de uma estrada involuntária e sozinha,
O vinco deixado na estrada pelas rodas enquanto não vêm outras,
O pião do garoto, que vai a parar,
E oscila, no mesmo movimento que o da alma,
E cai, como caem os deuses, no chão do Destino.

Álvaro de Campos, in Apostila


Era a ocasião de estar alegre.

Mas pesava-me qualquer coisa, uma ânsia desconhecida, um desejo sem definição, nem até reles. Tardava-me, talvez, a sensação de estar vivo. E quando me debrucei da janela altíssima, sobre a rua para onde olhei sem vê-la, senti-me de repente um daqueles trapos húmidos de limpar coisas sujas, que se levam para a janela para secar, mas se esquecem, enrodilhados, no parapeito que mancham lentamente.

Bernardo Soares, in Livro do Desassossego

Quiet Little Place

In this quiet little place
I can’t remember having known a different pace
In this quiet little place
I can surrender to the beauty of its face

And now everything I see
Whether it’s an airplane or a tree
It makes me wonder
About the things I must have missed
And the chains around my wrists
They are no longer

In this quiet little place
I can’t imagine what it’s like to be back home
Where they care about what time it is
And spend their days answering the phone

And now everything I feel
Whether it’s fiction or it’s real
It’s so much clearer
Like the color of this light
It seems more dangerous and bright
But I don’t fear her

And slowly it fades, I’m back in the race
I have to fight it, I know
I don’t want to go away

In this quiet little place
You run your fingers through my hair and whisper “Hey”
And no matter how I try
I can’t seem to think of anything better to say

The Creak Outside Jack’s Door

The creak outside his door
Tore Jack from his reading.
“What could be that croaking?”
He set out to explore.

But not yet was he standing,
Back down onto his chair,
His hind made a landing
And instead stood his hair.

“It’s just the wood splitting”
To himself he mumbled.
Slam! The wood floor hitting,
The heavy book tumbled.

Jack’s heart’s heavy thumping
Raced at such a fast pace
Now twice the clock’s ticking,
Placed cold white on his face
Where before there was red
And a chill down his spine
That through his body spread
And his spirit malign.

“That sound was not a thing.
It’s gone and won’t return.
The old wood plank did earn
A right to croak and sing.
There’s nothing to fear.
Naught will appear.
No, Not here.
All is clear.”

But the creek did recur,
Now closer and stronger.
“I can read no longer,
This dread I can’t defer”

“What rests outside the door?
Nay, unrests ‘cross my floor!
I calm my nerves it comes,
I wreck my calm it turns!
It knows my mind I’m sure!
Where brave are rich I’m poor!”

The long arms of his chair
His bony fingers clutched,
He suddenly felt touched
And he Screamed in dispair!

The corner of his room
He pressed himself against,
The icy wall he sensed
Panic his soul consumed.

He felt the wall’s embrace,
Set eyes to scrutiny,
Searched the entire place,
But found no villainy

Shaking from head to toe,
Gripping his chest bloody,
Gone mad in his study,
Good old jack had to know!

“What could have scared me so?”

“If I get up from here,
To the door place an ear,
Put away my concern
And my breathing govern,
I will hear what I fear,
Find it to be not queer
Just musings of the oak
Playing Old Jack a joke.”

But Old Jack would not rise.
He would not leave behind
That corner oh! so kind.
So his plan did revise.

“I’ll stay here
Where it is clear
That damned door
I won’t go for
If I wait
My dread abate
The dawn come
My fear be done”

The night seemed to linger,
The weather was changing.
Jack gnawed on his finger,
His legs were cramping.

The wind was heard to howl
To shriek and blow harder,
The oil lamp was now foul
Burning with less ardor.

The breeze coming under
The door brushed the fickle flame
And with roaring thunder
Did the only light claim.

Immerse in the darkness
Old Jack’s eyes grew to tears,
He was so scared, appears,
His sins he did confess.

The creak now sounded close,
Not outside anymore
But underneath the floor;
Of the corner Jack chose

“This dark air frightens me
So I will close my eyes
And of darkness be free.”
Old Jack thought himself wise.

The dark in his control
Old Jack’s nerves got relief
And surrendered some brief
Peace to his meager soul.

Loud, rough and violent
shoke the door on it’s hinge,
Causing Old Jack to cringe,
And again turned silent.

“These sounds terrify me
So I’ll listen no more,
Of creaks and croaks be free
And not fear anymore.”

Putting his fingers in
His ears Old Jack went deaf,
No lute or violin
could he hear more then clef.

Still he was not at ease,
In his mind he did see,
which made him want to flee,
The door open and him freeze.

All his nightmares rushed in
And surrounded Old Jack,
Ardent to launch attack
at the drop of a pin.

“I can not bear this mind
My fears, it turns to pain
I have gone deaf and blind,
Now choose to be insane.”

His eyes turned white,
He looked affright,
But gone was his mind
And his fate was kind.

There was nothing to fear
In what he could not hear.

There was no cause for concern
In what he could not discern.

Nothing that could bring him torment
Could his empty mind now invent.