NO CASCADE OF LIGHT


O endereço deste blog - "Compose in Darkness" - retrata bem o estado atual deste que vos escreve. O negócio é refrear os impulsos da alma e compor, bem quietinho, na escuridão o que (provavelmente) nunca e ninguém terá coragem de expor à luz. Mas a cruz é pesada, ninguém pode duvidar. Como manter a sanidade em um país onde cada partícula de esperança torna-se um caso clínico de Nada Cumpre Aquilo Que Promete? É deveras difícil, deveras. A solução? Apelar para uma solidão mórbida? Entrar para a turma do oba-oba e fazer parte da muralha que abomina os enigmas? No way, pal. Há de se encontrar um equilíbrio, um ponto de contato entre o que nos coloca em movimento e o que nos faz repousar na profunda paz do Espírito. Mas como? Como? Colocando o silêncio, o exílio e a astúcia ao seu dispor ou manobrando-os, como uma amante manhosa e que gosta de apanhar? Ou será que modelar a alma na escuridão desta incerteza tripla chamada Fé significa em se abandonar a algo mais (e suspire várias vezes por esse mais)e deixar as coisas tomarem seu rumo, não importa qual? Por enquanto, apenas fico com a frase do Santo:

"Pois é quando sou fraco é que sou forte".

A MODEST PROPOSAL

Ted Hughes

There is no better way to know us
Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.
Now neither´s able to sleep - even at a distance
Distracted by the soft competing pulse
Of the other; nor able to hunt - at every step
Looking backwards and sideways, warying to listen
For the other´s slavering rush. Neither can make die
The painful burning of the coal in its heart
Till the other´s body and the whole wood is its own.
Then it might sob contentment toward the moon.

Each in a thicket, rage hoarse in its labouring
Chest after a skirmish, licks the rents in its hide,
Eyes brighter than is natural under the leaves
(Where the wren, peeping around the leaf, shrieks out
To see a chink so terrifyingly open
Onto the red smelting of hatred)as each
Pictures a mad final satisfaction.

Suddenly they duck and peer.
And there rides by
The great lord from hunting. His emboidered
Cloak floats, the tail of his horse pours,
And at his stirrup the two great-eyed greyhounds
That day after day bring down the towering stag
Leap like one, making delighted sounds.

THE HAWK IN THE RAIN

Ted Hughes

I drown in the drumming ploughland, I drag up
Heel after heel from the swallowing of the earth´s mouth,
From clay that clutches mey each step to the ankle
With the habit of the dogged grave, but the hawk

Effortlessly at height hangs its still eye.
His wings hold all creation in a weighless quiet,
Steady as a hallucination in the streaming air.
While banging wind kills these stubborn hedges,

Thumbs my eyes, throws my breath, tackles my heart.
And rain hacks my head to the bone, the hawk hangs
The diamond point of will that polestars
The sea drowner´s endurance: and I,

Bloodily grabbed dazed last-moment-counting
Morsel in the earth´s mouth, strain towards the master-
Fulcrum of violence where the hawk hangs still.
That maybe in his own time meets the weather

Coming the wrong way, suffers the air, hurled upside down,
Fall from his eye, the ponderous shires crash on him,
The horizon trap him; the round angelic eye
Smashed, mix his heart´s blood with the mire of the land.