Atrás quedó, allá, en la alta montaña, cerrada a cal y canto igual que mi memoria, a merced de la nieve, el tiempo, los recuerdos. Atrás volvió a quedar igual que cada año cuando el otoño llega al valle del olvido y el silencio se espesa como una larga sombra sobre las viejas casas del pueblo abandonado. Atrás volvió a quedar igual que cada año, cerrada a cal y canto igual que su memoria, esperando a que un día, definitivamente, se cierre para siempre como mi corazón.
Julio Llamazares
Más lejos! Más lejos!... Y fui alejándome obedientemente, subido al zoom de un objetivo imaginado, muy lejos de las cosas, de los olores familiares, a la derecha de la dicha, sin mirar hacia la ternura, no, no, no toques nada con las manos, un poco más allá, en el bosque, al otro lado de la orilla del río, más lejos, más... Sonó el disparo y vi la bala plateada comerse la distancia, venir directa a mi, como en cámara lenta... Joder! -pensé- esto si que es alta definición
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ResponderEliminarEsto si! Que es alta definición!
ResponderEliminarImpressionante como é possível partilhar os momentos da vida dos outros julgando-os também nossos...
ResponderEliminarAh!, companheiro: não morrerás sozinho!
Então Jonas qual é a recita, um psiquiatra, unhas vacações ou no me apartar da trajectória?
ResponderEliminarTime present and time past
ResponderEliminarAre both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
;) A receita:
Go, go, go, sayd the bird...