Friday, December 13, 2013


Happiness ... Nobody saw me. The light would hide my face. Everything sparkled. On the walls, ideas and scribbles, always the same trips around the world. I used to look at the elephant; he carried a lamp on his back. My mother used to bring me news about her students when she came from school. I felt as if I was an orphan. The students were her children. But my mother loved me. Everyone has their way of loving. Like the elephant, who brought the electricity on his back to my father’s insomniac nights. My firs poem was full of tears. “… the living room door opened to the street, from there I saw my imaginary toys… from there the adventures seemed real”. Now I laugh about those things. Perhaps I was making drama. Perhaps it was the exaggerated sensitivity. And I also laughed, although I cried sometimes because of a scratch on my leg. From the garden stone fountain to the last flowers harvest I was always full of new stories. I dreamed about the teddy bear, fool dream of a hammerhead. My uncle coming around the corner of Friday bringing me in a pinkish package tied with thin string of a fade yellow, a plastic bear. I smiled. My uncle was my father. We could make of him whatever we wanted. The youngest one and I used to race and hide in his truck. We stole candy from his ice cream pallor and painted his face of a good man. The pictures scrawl on our stuffed memory. Like the rural houses painted blue. Happiness are small fractions which come to us in homeopathic doses, endlessly light, at tiny circumstances which sometimes we don´t even realize. Such as a good surprise in the evening, or when night falls. Happiness, de Josette Lassance, tradução de Fabíola Marques da Silva

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

a ponte do galo

agora mesmo passou por aqui o carroceiro - trazia garrafas tão sujas da poeira da vida - ávido pelo olhar do tempo a nuvem quase caía cinza no chão de madeira da carroça - a fêmea que apanhava era a bela e antiga - a égua branca - ela cagava sombria quase correndo por um corredor de lama - da ponte o último suspiro - pedia água à chuva - pedia sonhos aos deuses - corria pelos pântanos da noite às dores de suas coxas suadas - cansada - ferida e triste - recebia a surra merecida - agora mesmo passou por aqui o carroceiro - o chicote na mão agarrado ao fêmur da madeira - na ponte do galo há um rio que morre embaixo de suas pernas - na ponte do galo há um monte de almas penadas - agora mesmo passou por aqui o carroceiro - trazia carcaças de um portal enferrujado - da ponte do galo a chuva limpa o mundo - e nada mais se vê dessa rotina - nessa neblina imunda de injustiça. J.L. dez. 2013