São Paulo, domingo, 7 de agosto de 1994 |
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PRAISE FOR AN URN In Memoriam: Ernest Nelson It was a kind and northern face That mingled in such exile guise The everlasting eyes of Pierrot And, of Gargantua, the laughter. His thoughts, delivered to me From the white coverlet and pillow, I see now, were inheritances – Delicate riders of the storm. The slant moon on the slanting hill Once moved us toward presentiments Of what the dead keep, living still, And such assessments of the soul As, perched in the crematory lobby, The insistent clock commented on, Touching as well upon our praise Of glories proper to the time. Still, having in mind gold hair, I cannot see that broken brow And miss the dry sound of bees Stretching across a lucid space. Scatter these well-meant idioms Into the smoky spring that fills The suburbs, where they will be lost. They are no trophies of the sun. Texto Anterior: A PLANTA DO AR Próximo Texto: O CARIB ISLE! Índice |
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