6 de fev de 2009

o self-post

A Flawed Love Poem

“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”

— e.e. cummings

Tem dias que queremos ver o que nos apetece. Viva o Cummings, viva a Lempicka!

(self-post gente, eu fiz pra mim, fazer o quê? rs)

Um comentário:

Camila disse...

Ai que liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiindo! Amo Cummings. :)