sexta-feira, 12 de maio de 2017

sofrimento produtivo: devolução permitida

quarta-feira, 7 de dezembro de 2011

Onde os Cascos Não Tocam

Por mais queas
curvas se faces
por mais queos
rios oscilem les
descansem suas
a queda
Ecom a
se faz
De rios
se faz
o mar
se faz
o meu
Não me preocupam
ventos que  te sopram
os cochichos que
Te norteiam
sua bússola.
Onde tiver água
pelas encruzilhadas
te encontrarei.

sábado, 16 de julho de 2011

Marina Cansada de Esperar

Ah, seu barco, seu casco,
que águas tocam?
Que ventos sopram
seus cabelos de aguaesal?

Percorre águas distantes,
abundantes demais,
ou atraca-se em algum cais?
Deixou-se iludir
pelo brilho do cobre,
pelo ouro do sol,
que é fogo falso
e nada mais.

E agora,
que direção
sua bússola aponta?
onde vai encontrar
meu perdão?
com cheiro
de mar(mim),
areia  bem fundo
nos bolsos
um sorriso
Nada mais (nunca mais).

Esqueça a imensidão;
acolhe em meus braços (barco),
cansado terreno e brutal.
Se deixe afogar
Seu cansaço
Meu peito vazio
petrificado e milenar
seguro jamais.

Se Entenda


Aceite. Tome pra si o fato
que a tua boca sobre a minha
é trato. Encare agora ou antes;  
antes que o trançar desfaça, antes
que as minhas meias escorram
como a água e ralo,  tome,
se agarra agora ao meu corpo,
respire fundo meu sopro,
ande em cima
do pulso e compasso
do meu coração.

O corpo que
foge ao tempo,
eterno, a  fome
de vagar
pelo emaranhado,
por dentro.
Se esconde
pensar nas luas
lembrar que é lento
o pensar a tua carne
o peito austero e a fome

Acima urde o tempo,
bater do tempo
batendo sob minhas veias,
desde sempre
a vida escorre
entre os relevos.
Compasso. Batendo.

Descola da sua pele viva
olhar de um corpo novo,
Sem tentar ouvir .
Andei andei e dei
de cara com o muro,
antes devo gritar, com toda minha força, ao ódio
tristeza em mim, ilhada, a água
batendo sem cessar nas pedras. Devo gritar.
Digo isso a mim mesma e ao tempo. Mas do teu lado eu me deito.

Imensa. De onda e ódio e dor.

The Abode of Time

The Abode of Time

1: About the Fish Event
“Who puts himself in the place of another person, neither kills nor induces the other to kill." Buddharakkhita, trans., The Dhammapada

I would like to explain why I cried when I saw the boy torturing a fish.
First, the fish's death was not associated with any kind of necessity, since such fish can not be eaten by having poison. So, its death can not be justified by survival arguments.
I was not crying for the death itself - I instinctively know about the eternity of life. It was not only because I got into the fish’s skin looking into their eyes while it was suffering, feeling its pain and despair as if were mine.
I didn’t cry just because I looked to the boy into the fish’s eyes. Did the boy not see in the fish the same life that himself does? The boy is as the fish shaking for help. For only those who suffer face with indifference the other’s suffering.
I cried because I felt impotent from to the violence.

2: In Nature Everything Has Function
After the fish’s event, passed us an old man who I had long been sympathized with. He was walking on his slow continuous step. He carried fishes in a bag, a hat on his head and a serene smile on his face.
  • Good morning, Sr. Vicente! Is it for lunch?
  • Yes, it is. You are welcome.
Sr. Vicente looked in silence the boys fishing and said:
  • In nature everything has a function. A lot of people do not know this, because they do not look, but this is very important.

Such speech seems simple and even obvious and for many would go unnoticed, as something already known. But it touched me. His posture, his smile, but mostly Vincent's eyes said a lot. They were clear and open, attentive as a glass ball containing an ocean and sky. His deep and simple words came from a sincere relationship with nature and are the expression of his own life.

All most of us is a dense mass, that even in silence echo our dense thinking. Moving in space, we move the space itself. But Vicente did not. His body were made of fluid lines that did not sweep the wind. He was translucent.

Vincent discreet followed his fate. Smiling about how empty words can be. Wisdom is acquired only through time, silence and the look that does not search for senses.
Slowly and steady, Vicente went away, Leaving only a spark that joined to the fire that burns in me.

3: Eternity
We were on the dune of the funnel, where the sand formed a sea of ​​giant waves. Its abysmal size can not be compared. White, copper, brown. The sand so much and the sun was almost screaming! The Wind carried the sand and walked in patterns that could only be seen from a distance.
The wind was dancing and inviting to joying. The birds spread their wings and glided effortlessly. Blown ears made music. The sand was constantly moving, as if each grain of sand knew that it can not be fixed, that existence is a constant mutability.
The landscape’s beauty emanates a mystical essence. How beautiful is the passage of time! seconds after day after seasons, year, incarnation. That's the beauty secret: ephemerality - flowers, caterpillar’s cocoon, fire and the sea. To live is to die constantly.
Is Death who kisses my eyes while I dream, who goes freezing up and down my skin when I am in love and who puts me in the present moment, in this moment, as the only existing. Death allows me to live. She repeats my past and my future and condenses it now and allows me to be new each moment. Is Death who blows and draws with the grains of sand on the dune. As I live and love, impossible not to recognize that this world is the Death’s empire.
The silence was broken by an unpleasant noise. It was mechanical and brutal and comes from fear and attachment.
Motorized quadricycles passed ripping the perfect flat of the dunes. Spreading sand and breaking with the aurea that embraced the landscape. On seeing the scene, one of the boys wisely translated into words the fragility and despair of the drivers, that could be any one.
"They do it to feel immortal."