No meu último trabalho de inglês, precisei adotar um pintor e realizar uma análise de sua arte. Eu escrevi uma poesia. Eu a li diante de toda turma. Eu tive vontade sair correndo e chorar num cantinho. Primeiramente, ler uma criação minha é o equivalente em deitar nua numa maca com o peito aberto e os órgãos expostos, permitindo que todos assistam da galeria. E, em segundo lugar, minha voz não é digna das palavras. Eu aprendi a selar os lábios e a falar com os dedos, não o inverso.
Eu me senti aterrorizada e envergonhada. Depois, senti uma sensação libertadora. Agora estou triste pela falta de amor - tanto próprio quanto alheio - e por ver o quanto ainda sou limitada. Mas acredito que se eles puderam ouvi-la dos meus lábios, vocês, ao menos, podem lê-la aqui. Vocês merecem mais. As palavras merecem mais do que minha língua fez delas. Afinal, não é uma poesia ruim.
***
A Study in Hygieia
The old
gods are dead,
Or, maybe,
they are just asleep
Prisoners
in crazy and cruel dreams,
Damaged by
the interminable wait.
The poetry
is the dream of the gods
And my
words are the nightmares of Hygieia,
who stirs uneasy
in her red sheets.
Love her is
not the wisest choice to make,
But I am
not the wisest of all beings.
Deep in my
heart, I know
That she
will take me by a long corridor
To meet
with the healer.
And, once
there, he will take my soul
And put it
in her hands,
Where my
heart already lies.
She used to
heal the diseased
And soothe
the pain of those who suffer.
But the
power corrupted her and
The lack of
faith of the men inflamed her soul
And woke
the insatiable hunger for love
That is
characteristic of all gods.
More vain
than Aphrodite
And fiercer
than Ares.
She likes
to make them all fall to their knees
With
declarations of love pouring from their lips.
Fools are
those who don't satisfy her desires,
Because she
carries the sanity of all in her hands
And she
needs just to squeeze them into fists
To make all
of them lose their minds.
More fools
are those who fall in love with her
And what a
big fool I am!
I would
gratefully drink from her chalice
And I would
gladly accept the madness.
With a
mystic smile on her red lips,
She makes
you sell your soul
Deliver
your heart,
Resign from
reality
And go mad
smiling.
But the
truth is that the old gods sleep
And my
goddess dreams of love and madness,
Desire and
disease,
Blood and
guts.
And I, her
eternal slave,
Write, just
write
And
question: is curse or salvation
The madness
she offer to those who love her?
Because the
reality is gray and the sanity is tedious,
And maybe
we only go mad because she loves us back
And wants
to save us from this world.
After all,
love is a kind of madness.
Or maybe go
mad is our curse
because we
can never love her enough.
But what I
know about the plans of the gods?
They sleep
and dream poetry,
I just
write it down and go crazy.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário