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Segunda-feira, 12.09.11



Os atletas moçambicanos que deixaram legado por esse mundo fora. Pela pena da Paola Rolleta, jornalista italiana amante da nossa língua e mui querida amiga. Bravo bella!AL

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por AL às 20:22

Segunda-feira, 12.09.11

Pela pena dos poetas anglófonos

Memorial day.  Bitter salt is dressed upas a little girl with flowers.The streets are cordoned off with ropes,for the marching together of the living and the dead.Children with a grief not their own march slowly,like stepping over broken glass.
Memorial Day for the War Dead by Yehuda Amichai  
The towers are incidental.What are these ashes?Here is the hateThat does not travel.Here is the robeThat smells of the nightHere are the wordsRetired to their booksHere are the stonesLoosed from their settingsHere is the bridgeOver the waterHere is the placeWhere the sun came upHere is a seasonDry in the fireplace.Here are the ashes.The days are beautiful.
Hum by Ann Lauterbch 
After the thunder wilder than thunder,after the booming ice storm of glass from the great windows,after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo, like a cook's soul.Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face,soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellationsacross the night sky of this city and cities to come.Alabanza I say, even if God has no face. Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan to Kabultwo constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:Teach me to dance. We have no music here.And the other said with a Spanish tongue:I will teach you. Music is all we have.
Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100 by Martin Espada(poema dedicado ao pessoal do restaurante Windows of the World no topo da torre norte to World Trade Centre) 
I wonder if it hurts to live – And if They have to try – And whether – could They choose between – It would not be – to die –
I Measure Every Grief I Meet by Emily Dickinson 
Surely some revelation is at hand;Surely the Second Coming is at hand.The Second Coming! Hardly are those words outWhen a vast image out of Spiritus MundiTroubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desertA shape with lion body and the head of a man,A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,Is moving its slow thighs, while all about itReel shadows of the indignant desert birds.The darkness drops again; but now I knowThat twenty centuries of stony sleepWere vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
The Second Coming by W B YeatsAL 

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Setembro 2011