tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55433418373697015122024-03-18T20:03:01.925+00:00Ecos de Poesia e Literatura Aqui estão as minhas escolhas do que considero melhor em Poesia,Prosa Poética e Fotografia.
Domingo é dia de trabalhos de minha autoria.
BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.comBlogger2915125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-88551136893359599392024-03-17T23:30:00.000+00:002024-03-18T09:36:23.898+00:00Será que a Paz<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XW_rlHoSPYU/VsNi_2WZt7I/AAAAAAAADus/AskhcA1zkls/s1600/Mariam%2BSitchinava%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XW_rlHoSPYU/VsNi_2WZt7I/AAAAAAAADus/AskhcA1zkls/s640/Mariam%2BSitchinava%2529.jpg" width="640" /></span></i></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mariam Sitchinava</span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Será que a paz?</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>num futuro muito próximo,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>será apenas uma utopia,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ou os caminhos estão contaminados,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>por criaturas __ que sendo da raça humana,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>parecem não ser.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Será que a ganância,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>só vê os lucros que a guerra traz,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>e que a paz não compensa,.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b>Será que acordei,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>com pensamentos danosos.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Ou não?</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : BeatriceM 2024-03-16</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-14370723986464443332024-03-16T14:32:00.000+00:002024-03-16T14:32:45.341+00:00...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PVXYi02ylOg/XNh9ZT-z9SI/AAAAAAAAGoc/4jlq7AgIIVY1TZOSY_ztq1SYyQ0u_MtGgCLcBGAs/s1600/Mikeila%2BBorgia%2B---.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="622" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PVXYi02ylOg/XNh9ZT-z9SI/AAAAAAAAGoc/4jlq7AgIIVY1TZOSY_ztq1SYyQ0u_MtGgCLcBGAs/s640/Mikeila%2BBorgia%2B---.jpg" width="640" /></span></i></a></div>
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<b><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Mikeila Borgia</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></b></div>
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<b><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">O mar foi ontem </span></b></div>
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<b><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">o que o idioma pode ser hoje,</span></b></div>
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<b><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">basta vencer alguns Adamastores.</span></b></div>
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<b><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i>Autor : Mia Couto</i></span></div>
BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-89461023964708220852024-03-15T15:04:00.000+00:002024-03-15T15:04:07.827+00:00O Tempo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zlsz6Pk7c_I/V1mOkmMofXI/AAAAAAAAEEk/5CULYlANTjwnDTZ8m_TSvGNjGnFha6aywCLcB/s1600/Johan%2BMessely%2B-%2BTutt%2527Art%2540%2B-%2B%252812%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="482" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zlsz6Pk7c_I/V1mOkmMofXI/AAAAAAAAEEk/5CULYlANTjwnDTZ8m_TSvGNjGnFha6aywCLcB/s640/Johan%2BMessely%2B-%2BTutt%2527Art%2540%2B-%2B%252812%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Johan Messely</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>O tempo tem aspectos misteriosos:</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Um ano passa a toda a velocidade,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>E um minuto, se estamos ansiosos</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Parece, às vezes, uma eternidade.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Um dia ou é veloz ou pachorrento</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>-depende do que está a contecer-</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>O tempo de estudar, pode ser lento.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>O tempo de brincar, passa a correr.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b>E aquela terrível arrelia</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Que até te fez chorar, por ser tão má,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>deixa passar o tempo. Por magia,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Quando olhamos para trás, já lá não está.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : Rosa Lobato Faria</i></div></span> </div>
BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-76830059622027020442024-03-14T15:21:00.000+00:002024-03-14T15:21:56.941+00:00Noite Escura<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQISHveS9WUTgnJoT022xXJcCglTnxkz_FhvonKWE08UFq4yEGaHioCH6rU4YoCf7vVz4lwh3BQDWD84z3PVYdwC6JDrFTlL39voq0volCVeL5ngXbE9OB9elZ2OZ4bojCxlvBXZJnAgmk5Gn4OlLwgIE6pamA7gyfcoBYiqoktfoHo2E2Cxvw35-F2kS8/s800/adrian-borda08.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="800" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQISHveS9WUTgnJoT022xXJcCglTnxkz_FhvonKWE08UFq4yEGaHioCH6rU4YoCf7vVz4lwh3BQDWD84z3PVYdwC6JDrFTlL39voq0volCVeL5ngXbE9OB9elZ2OZ4bojCxlvBXZJnAgmk5Gn4OlLwgIE6pamA7gyfcoBYiqoktfoHo2E2Cxvw35-F2kS8/w640-h450/adrian-borda08.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b>sobre a curva do rio cuanza</b></span></div><b><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;">o sol mergulha</div></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;">vermelho</div></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;">recortando no horizonte sombras de palmeiras</div></span></b></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>ai, é tão triste a noite sem estrelas!</b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>um dia</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>o meu sol caiu no mar</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>e me anoiteceu</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>um dia começou uma noite sem estrelas.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>mas na noite escura</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>os corações se erguem</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ah!é tão alegre a madrugada!</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor :Agostinho Neto</i></div></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Imagem :Adrian Borda</i></span></span></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-88173156774858614182024-03-13T10:28:00.000+00:002024-03-13T10:28:06.781+00:00Menina Perdida<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibX26Mz2B-XTrQ7s6Nd1fRKIajIfIOKuwHHx0l2GrKYrhosuh0KB7mgcQRjh8KxgcYS5Rm5t7OccEd8sqLCxD5WurzNlF1CcLFQCNGrpuH3Y0pn-pwTebvEftN3eQPmWrEK9Ov6C4me4WTQ67BtKcWRu7zk_wNfsp0sH44w_v-ia2OClG2THI4lSXzy7r1/s1024/aleah-michele014.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="788" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibX26Mz2B-XTrQ7s6Nd1fRKIajIfIOKuwHHx0l2GrKYrhosuh0KB7mgcQRjh8KxgcYS5Rm5t7OccEd8sqLCxD5WurzNlF1CcLFQCNGrpuH3Y0pn-pwTebvEftN3eQPmWrEK9Ov6C4me4WTQ67BtKcWRu7zk_wNfsp0sH44w_v-ia2OClG2THI4lSXzy7r1/w493-h640/aleah-michele014.webp" width="493" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Menina perdida</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>no bosque da vida.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b>Os olhos desertos,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>os gestos errados,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>os passos incertos,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>os sonhos cansados.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Menina perdida,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>desaparecida</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>nos longos caminhos</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>de pedras e espinhos.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Cabelos molhados,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>pés nús, alma exangue,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>vestidos rasgados,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>mãos frias, em sangue.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Menina encontrada</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>na berma da estrada.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Andava perdida</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>mas já foi achada,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>de branco vestida,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>de branco calçada.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b>Menina perdida</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>no bosque da vida.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : Fernanda de Castro</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>imagem :Aleah Michele</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-46800191452583958982024-03-12T15:40:00.000+00:002024-03-12T15:40:29.349+00:00Na espera<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21GVD7DNsREa-pdMjeGZXVLGepCINe9UXwmnDIBIYEVJ6XGgD2kqz86nJS1v_BZUNgUBI_1BTOrJ5FQYZHD90RrBG4Ta0S7LQgptNF3s2pK6zj8C7hPSsuK4b5UrVPw4xXFP1sOSIGuxnWM21SJ7QMU_NqVsBBkX_097jqIUB-I5HU6xfhGlNwuDoZLLW/s600/martinstranka2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21GVD7DNsREa-pdMjeGZXVLGepCINe9UXwmnDIBIYEVJ6XGgD2kqz86nJS1v_BZUNgUBI_1BTOrJ5FQYZHD90RrBG4Ta0S7LQgptNF3s2pK6zj8C7hPSsuK4b5UrVPw4xXFP1sOSIGuxnWM21SJ7QMU_NqVsBBkX_097jqIUB-I5HU6xfhGlNwuDoZLLW/w640-h640/martinstranka2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Na tua ausência</span></b></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">suspendo a respiração</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">respiro apenas saudade</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">pelos poros do meu corpo</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">ficarei desnudado</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">à tua espera.</span></b></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i>Autor :Luís Rodrigues</i></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i>https://brancasnuvensnegras.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2024-03-05T00:01:00Z&max-results=100</i></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i>Imagem : Martin Stranka</i></div><div style="font-size: large;"><br /></div></span></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-33104300633633107362024-03-10T14:36:00.000+00:002024-03-10T14:36:07.910+00:00regresso<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnRW64RMU2gAhXyfVwoB2rEwN1Y5d0SGIMBBQSlo475jRzM8AOQhRiRrsdISDbRADSpAbcXifKr-rlSz6m7BCE8zKode4meMjZjvqJZPaMuB-dbRSFdggtiSsBLJSYFs_5QteIUxprHEAEYI3-RlC4SZFMgNVOg6o0up1G5QNHHMCqcGExwEmdgwwibbcJ/s660/sarah-ann-loreth72.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="660" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnRW64RMU2gAhXyfVwoB2rEwN1Y5d0SGIMBBQSlo475jRzM8AOQhRiRrsdISDbRADSpAbcXifKr-rlSz6m7BCE8zKode4meMjZjvqJZPaMuB-dbRSFdggtiSsBLJSYFs_5QteIUxprHEAEYI3-RlC4SZFMgNVOg6o0up1G5QNHHMCqcGExwEmdgwwibbcJ/w640-h640/sarah-ann-loreth72.webp" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">regresso ao início do caminho da minha infância</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">olho e tudo está diferente do que era</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">entro e ando ao sabor do vento que me impele</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">vou sem determinação</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">sinto que já não sou daqui</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">já faz muito tempo que fui para a cidade grande.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">hoje regressei</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">para ver se ainda havia algum resquício na minha memória</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">mas já tudo se perdeu no tempo</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">só o nome do caminho ainda é o mesmo</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">e o nome dos velhos também</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">mas eles já não sabem quem eu sou</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">e eu também não.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Autor : BeatriceM 2024-03-09</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Imagem : Sarah Ann Loreth</span></i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-71961260017005675862024-03-09T11:24:00.000+00:002024-03-09T11:24:51.554+00:00Poema do Engate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhInldDENW9ZjnnQczkWa0jFzMvec9GmG6D1tK3usBnCx8ja7e43WfJvwzgz3fZsLOxSd742xgSvbtQZX07Pen-B-a5ZZ6Ayxve-MWgJMp4oNSr_g8AkNQkSGzKM-YrE-PlQVTG6FjVP5RtMKnEMLZ1uWXLDDtOBseUE_-7Ls6ZFsIfEU60fzSQwc3ymb-A/s600/martinstranka15.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhInldDENW9ZjnnQczkWa0jFzMvec9GmG6D1tK3usBnCx8ja7e43WfJvwzgz3fZsLOxSd742xgSvbtQZX07Pen-B-a5ZZ6Ayxve-MWgJMp4oNSr_g8AkNQkSGzKM-YrE-PlQVTG6FjVP5RtMKnEMLZ1uWXLDDtOBseUE_-7Ls6ZFsIfEU60fzSQwc3ymb-A/w640-h640/martinstranka15.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Atinge as palavras com fúria.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Avança na direcção</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>da rouquidão da noite.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Sabes que é assim</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>que se colhem paixões;</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Com o cutelo do sonho empunhado,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>os olhos esganados de desejo</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>e o corpo a tremer,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>numa ressaca de ternura.</b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor :Fernando Dinis</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In Dá-me-te Pág. 13</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Imagem : Martin Stranka</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-72323863900104980012024-03-08T15:51:00.000+00:002024-03-08T15:51:20.952+00:00Deixa que o deserto<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoJrCCVsKqiF05qhK61vG5H72srW5KcOA5OUut2gI2ZuTrNM8DuOvCJ3C_twVS1KHcmnKNr1YgJk_yqQYUTOmM52nRYoqtZ4vme6mi22_RyGT1xYVixAj9V2sEHXebTMYYqJZ4djtZczLKZPpDBojBiR7v0NAqewynIZpn57BCIyz8SU1Wi_-5OnJzEsp/s1002/a52db3c9b819c6f808d5ae3e92926225.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1002" data-original-width="564" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoJrCCVsKqiF05qhK61vG5H72srW5KcOA5OUut2gI2ZuTrNM8DuOvCJ3C_twVS1KHcmnKNr1YgJk_yqQYUTOmM52nRYoqtZ4vme6mi22_RyGT1xYVixAj9V2sEHXebTMYYqJZ4djtZczLKZPpDBojBiR7v0NAqewynIZpn57BCIyz8SU1Wi_-5OnJzEsp/s16000/a52db3c9b819c6f808d5ae3e92926225.jpg" /></a><br /></p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><b><div style="text-align: center;">Deixa que o deserto seja o oásis e a areia seja o mar desta quietude branca</div><div style="text-align: center;">que corre e avança</div><div style="text-align: center;">no seu jeito de abraçar.</div></b></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><b><div style="text-align: center;">E que cada flor de areia</div><div style="text-align: center;">seja olhos do deserto</div><div style="text-align: center;">tão distante mas tão perto</div><div style="text-align: center;">tão árido mas tão liberto</div><div style="text-align: center;">onde correm</div><div style="text-align: center;">as palavras nas pegadas do verso.</div></b></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><b><div style="text-align: center;">Que subam, que desçam nas dunas</div><div style="text-align: center;">em grãos de palavras ao vento</div><div style="text-align: center;">que não penso,</div><div style="text-align: center;">nem quero,</div><div style="text-align: center;">nem digo</div><div style="text-align: center;">acorrentadas às algemas</div><div style="text-align: center;">dos meus pés nus de mendigo.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Que se enterrem na areia das minhas mãos, os seus dedos,</div><div style="text-align: center;">que sequem ao sol</div><div style="text-align: center;">na sombra vagabunda do medo.</div></b></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Hoje sou a liberdade no esqueleto mudo do segredo.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : Manuela Barroso</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In Luminescências</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Imagem :Pinterest</i></div></span></div></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-60865728536831485842024-03-07T15:15:00.000+00:002024-03-07T15:16:00.259+00:00Sentar-me<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5N_Wv8OeOc9eoLzfaImEqjuhzq6OQaLQZ6wtWKzHgGfE0t5t2FKsYmob0WV4C9_PAMUZIYYjun96mMqFU8IiCQ-rpDk7wbQJG_4S95CDkNbCNOJmK5HmwcHfiHuv9cM5f6cSLuqpX5rIO6Z9vU77ma6BYJEJvqvlNN1S5W1AkoeYh5XZcvZpfi_wPttGc/s400/martin%20stranka%20113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Josefin Sans"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5N_Wv8OeOc9eoLzfaImEqjuhzq6OQaLQZ6wtWKzHgGfE0t5t2FKsYmob0WV4C9_PAMUZIYYjun96mMqFU8IiCQ-rpDk7wbQJG_4S95CDkNbCNOJmK5HmwcHfiHuv9cM5f6cSLuqpX5rIO6Z9vU77ma6BYJEJvqvlNN1S5W1AkoeYh5XZcvZpfi_wPttGc/w640-h640/martin%20stranka%20113.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Sentar-me e</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">ver os outros passar é o</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">meu exercício favorito. Entretém.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Não esgota.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">É gratuito. Neste meu jogo-do-não</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">são os outros que passam</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">(é aos outros que reservo a tarefa</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">de passar). Lavo daí os pés.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Escrevo de dentro da vida.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Pode até parecer que assim não</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">chego a lugar algum mas também quem</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">é que quer ir</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">ao sítio dos outros?</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Autor :João Luís Barreto Guimarães</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">in Luz Última</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Imagem : Martin Stranka</span></i></div> BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-10630836232618497792024-03-06T15:18:00.000+00:002024-03-06T15:18:06.085+00:00Culpa tua (ou minha)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim27NazYgL7p6YNhr53ysVe10ToTufHNnGZRHWZULSfFKisEyG1-4Um_ydiomfG0zaTUBitG3gkFZFmrK7LgvoC_YewhZx6q7vdm_Jg4DPw8YcYsbFj9X7q0he_yfKryNFeY1ZdcatxI_CkhZGWk7evIAbqCch1pj2KfCRao6G8_U7wVjMgwkBbIYKUDrt/s1200/TJ-Drysdale09.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim27NazYgL7p6YNhr53ysVe10ToTufHNnGZRHWZULSfFKisEyG1-4Um_ydiomfG0zaTUBitG3gkFZFmrK7LgvoC_YewhZx6q7vdm_Jg4DPw8YcYsbFj9X7q0he_yfKryNFeY1ZdcatxI_CkhZGWk7evIAbqCch1pj2KfCRao6G8_U7wVjMgwkBbIYKUDrt/w427-h640/TJ-Drysdale09.webp" width="427" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Culpa tua (ou minha)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Hoje sonhei contigo</div><div style="text-align: center;">e tive um pesadelo.</div><div style="text-align: center;">E quando acordei senti-me mal</div><div style="text-align: center;">com aquela reacção quase animal</div><div style="text-align: center;">de quem está no meio da teia</div><div style="text-align: center;">ou dentro de um novelo.</div><div style="text-align: center;">E o dia foi passando</div><div style="text-align: center;">tristemente morno,</div><div style="text-align: center;">castamente frio</div><div style="text-align: center;">num arrepio de sombras</div><div style="text-align: center;">de fantasmas mortos.</div><div style="text-align: center;">E só ao anoitecer</div><div style="text-align: center;">quando o escuro me estendeu os braços</div><div style="text-align: center;">na protecção do medo</div><div style="text-align: center;">é que eu me despertei</div><div style="text-align: center;">e percebi</div><div style="text-align: center;">que era superior</div><div style="text-align: center;">a este amor</div><div style="text-align: center;">que um dia recusaste</div><div style="text-align: center;">E vou esquecer.</div> <div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor:Manuela Amaral</i></div></span></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>in "En Nome de Nada",</i></span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Imagem :TJ Drysdale</i></span></div></span><div><div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm;">
</div></div></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-85090505049368162922024-03-05T15:03:00.000+00:002024-03-05T15:03:21.203+00:00mais leve do que o ar<p class="Estilo2"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggS-xgrKn_PNnVHlpqmOh7Er9WoPXR5hNw6GogsW1Qkh8AXaspXfURw6qz_omgSNJ9vjKApP-L02mVUTb-pGQ9d9GaawY0xGIT6ZxSUOKPyefxc_OFI6Ml9LI3tjtjknaecRhyphenhyphenqPsopGuRWcDYx5Hxum00fMJ4UvJnlJ6f-fx4oUmBkK3npouZ-FzJtpA9/s700/oleg-oprisco04.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggS-xgrKn_PNnVHlpqmOh7Er9WoPXR5hNw6GogsW1Qkh8AXaspXfURw6qz_omgSNJ9vjKApP-L02mVUTb-pGQ9d9GaawY0xGIT6ZxSUOKPyefxc_OFI6Ml9LI3tjtjknaecRhyphenhyphenqPsopGuRWcDYx5Hxum00fMJ4UvJnlJ6f-fx4oUmBkK3npouZ-FzJtpA9/w640-h640/oleg-oprisco04.webp" width="640" /></a></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">quando caímos um pelo outro,</div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">não ardemos, nem nos quebrámos:</div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">fomos mais leves do que o ar.</div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Autor : João de Mancelos</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Coração de aluguer. Lisboa: Colibri, 2023. 94 pp. ISBN: 978-989-566-285-2.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Imagem Oleg Oprisco</span></i></div></b></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-4868225601282650622024-03-03T17:35:00.000+00:002024-03-03T17:35:53.046+00:00Apenas Memória<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkONqgkLufUDp7dDtwWK-r3ykusRIWfcSdI4dWGInEXRIdx35o_K631472KCYhQs9EvTebX44EJv8cxytppApmJbq5QeOl7jcboqaaRe0mvTeSlFINRpelX8TM5Em1exVSnM6_ZGW_Mf0uoW9SHqS7D9A-HIUiX4rm_4EZIcLwBHQ6Dl3TYd1oihpJiJ9C/s880/janek-sedlar-autumn-forests017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="880" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkONqgkLufUDp7dDtwWK-r3ykusRIWfcSdI4dWGInEXRIdx35o_K631472KCYhQs9EvTebX44EJv8cxytppApmJbq5QeOl7jcboqaaRe0mvTeSlFINRpelX8TM5Em1exVSnM6_ZGW_Mf0uoW9SHqS7D9A-HIUiX4rm_4EZIcLwBHQ6Dl3TYd1oihpJiJ9C/w640-h424/janek-sedlar-autumn-forests017.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Renasço e volto à curva da estrada<br />Como os bichos que regressam ao local onde o dono se perdeu<br />Julgam eles, pobres inocentes<br />E voltam uma vez, duas vezes e outras tantas</b></span></p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <p style="text-align: center;"><b>Depois, tudo se transforma em rotina<br /></b><b>A curva ainda fica mais destacada<br /></b><b>No meu olhar esgotado<br /></b><b>Onde o passado ficou soterrado</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Volto e sei que a curva ainda existe<br />Mas o futuro já não faz parte de nós<br />Apenas e só, será meramente uma memória inserida<br />E que ainda não se desmanchou integralmente</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : BeatriceM 2024-03-02<br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Imagem : Janek Sediar</span></i></p></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-16597148633289366382024-03-02T15:25:00.000+00:002024-03-02T15:25:49.818+00:00Para Escrever o Poema<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VJGrtgH6IOA/VcDXFaRvN_I/AAAAAAAADR4/K80tJFMFCmY/s1600/4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VJGrtgH6IOA/VcDXFaRvN_I/AAAAAAAADR4/K80tJFMFCmY/s640/4.jpg" width="640" /></span></i></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">laura makabresku</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>O poeta quer escrever sobre um
pássaro:</b></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>
e o pássaro foge-lhe do verso.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>
O poeta quer escrever sobre a
maçã:<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>
e a maçã cai-lhe do ramo onde a
pousou.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>
O poeta quer escrever sobre uma
flor:<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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e a flor murcha no jarro da
estrofe.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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Então, o poeta faz uma gaiola de
palavras<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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para o pássaro não fugir.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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Então, o poeta chama pela
serpente<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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para que ela convença Eva a
morder a maçã.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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Então, o poeta põe água na
estrofe<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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para que a flor não murche.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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Mas um pássaro não canta<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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quando o fecham na gaiola.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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A serpente não sai da terra<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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porque Eva tem medo de
serpentes.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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E a água que devia manter viva a
flor<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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escorre por entre os versos.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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E quando o poeta pousou a
caneta,<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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o pássaro começou a voar,<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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Eva correu por entre as
macieiras<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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e todas as flores nasceram da
terra.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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O poeta voltou a pegar na
caneta,<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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escreveu o que tinha visto,<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>e o poema ficou feito.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>
Autor : © Nuno Júdice</i></span></div>
</div>
BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-86669212613746141012024-03-01T07:00:00.001+00:002024-03-01T07:00:00.133+00:00Prece<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKbTdILoeMQwi4SNhFIgi57sLHXjjyi4pbwESKdczXDQY1-xZRHj1NkaTdfldZQHKcMF-sUdr67Yaeg3Uk3g_i_Ww7gcqZOV7YAnSDTZJ1yf0QnjIdwbpajkCJ8aO6L7M432at_ejGm9iVP_TGwpMwxBs66dwoRFuD4aDBNqKHtsPaIDNCoFdi_LJqUG8/s724/a4da1d358c91df04209af1f9d939b3c2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="483" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKbTdILoeMQwi4SNhFIgi57sLHXjjyi4pbwESKdczXDQY1-xZRHj1NkaTdfldZQHKcMF-sUdr67Yaeg3Uk3g_i_Ww7gcqZOV7YAnSDTZJ1yf0QnjIdwbpajkCJ8aO6L7M432at_ejGm9iVP_TGwpMwxBs66dwoRFuD4aDBNqKHtsPaIDNCoFdi_LJqUG8/s16000/a4da1d358c91df04209af1f9d939b3c2.jpg" /></a></div><div><span face="Roboto, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #383331; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Senhor, que és o céu e a terra, e que és a vida e a morte! O sol és tu e a lua és tu e o vento és tu! Tu és os nossos corpos e as nossas almas e o nosso amor és tu também. Onde nada está tu habitas e onde tudo estás — (o teu templo) — eis o teu corpo.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Dá-me alma para te servir e alma para te amar. Dá-me vista para te ver sempre no céu e na terra, ouvidos para te ouvir no vento e no mar, e mãos para trabalhar em teu nome.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Torna-me puro como a água e alto como o céu. Que não haja lama nas estradas dos meus pensamentos nem folhas mortas nas lagoas dos meus propósitos. Faz com que eu saiba amar os outros como irmãos e servir-te como a um pai.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>[…)</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Minha vida seja digna da tua presença. Meu corpo seja digno da terra, tua cama. Minha alma possa aparecer diante de ti como um filho que volta ao lar.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Torna-me grande como o Sol, para que eu te possa adorar em mim; e torna-me puro como a lua, para que eu te possa rezar em mim; e torna-me claro como o dia para que eu te possa ver sempre em mim e rezar-te e adorar-te.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Senhor, protege-me e ampara-me. Dá-me que eu me sinta teu. Senhor, livra-me de mim.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Autor:F</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">ernando Pessoa.</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Prosa Íntima e de Autoconhecimento.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-91940980055275037542024-02-29T16:15:00.013+00:002024-02-29T16:37:15.730+00:00Disponibilidade para gostar<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwkH4GXstVpPh37w16yAi7ckhMDBFFxTdm4quzufq1pvrM3D0agcg4V9X3Z8Jr73UKNDJqHxLRustSM3bVIVruklDjAJrJrjF_6mB6oMBHPntE9qItBNXhXsxDeBbDc4N963bpfLyjW51COyodaXPogNnBUyW26mmr9OJTGtoGiqzoz2cewh1lC3Kk7VO/s375/Kamil%20Vojnar123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="375" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwkH4GXstVpPh37w16yAi7ckhMDBFFxTdm4quzufq1pvrM3D0agcg4V9X3Z8Jr73UKNDJqHxLRustSM3bVIVruklDjAJrJrjF_6mB6oMBHPntE9qItBNXhXsxDeBbDc4N963bpfLyjW51COyodaXPogNnBUyW26mmr9OJTGtoGiqzoz2cewh1lC3Kk7VO/w640-h640/Kamil%20Vojnar123.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Gosto</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>de veladas juras de amor</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>gosto</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>quando te transformas numa rosa</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>gosto</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>mesmo que nada disto seja verdade.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>Autor :Luís Rodrigues-</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>https://brancasnuvensnegras.blogspot.com/</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>Imagem : Kamil Vojnar</i></span></div><br />BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-51105101857983840752024-02-28T15:22:00.000+00:002024-02-28T15:22:48.079+00:00 Ode do homem de rua<p class="Estilo2"><o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1rGy4fmxJcRN0GIWrSoUacVJ_BSp4O2JXP4PXpB-gGsjITkWokj_vvk5jYpHJGPxAs0oGawzxXasf86E5MkjZuUJajtYiSdHRknIlIAAhBXs4JMdg5vquqAzsMxsjnFPyCVQ3HgdFDOUXTcnQcqSw10KqchiC0_kzZ5XTvEfS68xLNEey-Oc5faQVtS7/s563/7b8c211b8a3a2fd48a6a2f9b095efcbf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="563" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1rGy4fmxJcRN0GIWrSoUacVJ_BSp4O2JXP4PXpB-gGsjITkWokj_vvk5jYpHJGPxAs0oGawzxXasf86E5MkjZuUJajtYiSdHRknIlIAAhBXs4JMdg5vquqAzsMxsjnFPyCVQ3HgdFDOUXTcnQcqSw10KqchiC0_kzZ5XTvEfS68xLNEey-Oc5faQVtS7/w640-h384/7b8c211b8a3a2fd48a6a2f9b095efcbf.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><br /></o:p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>trazia uma pulseira branca de plástico</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>a imitar uma promessa</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>de asilo azul</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>ou um número gasto</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>um poema a emagrecer.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">dormia à entrada de uma porta estranha</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">de sono ébrio coração esquecido</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">ou barba por fazer e a vida a dar horas.</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">só o medo não me fez tocar na mão</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">a segurar um abandono de fio de prata</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">e contar-lhe as feridas com os beijos possíveis.</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: verdana;">(um coração esquecido de si é fácil de esquecer),</b></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>mas quando a rua grita e aflige com a náusea</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>das flores que nunca cobrirão os sete palmos de terra</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>é impossível anoitecer como homem igual.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">e lembrar-me que o corpo é todo o mesmo</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">e triste assim.</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">a polícia veio</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">pôs uma sirene no lugar do estranho.</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">a porta fechada</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">nas frestas nenhuma respiração</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">quis sentir o perfume doído.</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">lembrar-me que o corpo é todo o mesmo</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">e triste assim</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">quando não há o que vestir</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">e não se tem mais dentes para amar ninguém</div></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">nem fome de casas.</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : Ana Salomé</i></div></span></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-14772165899724006262024-02-27T10:06:00.000+00:002024-02-27T10:06:02.710+00:00Sorrisos<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEG8MRbHPPhVwojRTBJiNIXvUZfKXav8SjXwNfEFDTBZLQNuHhszsg1ThNPFcXjaifNI-h-dNvUaC0ucQrAO9k08KJeH1VvmrFwUYCIA3VOggQeLz-zbwDJI49RApeB0YZRGHKvzPFJa4pvBqywB8LeAC3EdYl9UpifMjWJBfV7Oje6KQ_FYE8iTsN_jAp/s880/tulip-fields-netherlands-007-Albert%20Dros.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="880" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEG8MRbHPPhVwojRTBJiNIXvUZfKXav8SjXwNfEFDTBZLQNuHhszsg1ThNPFcXjaifNI-h-dNvUaC0ucQrAO9k08KJeH1VvmrFwUYCIA3VOggQeLz-zbwDJI49RApeB0YZRGHKvzPFJa4pvBqywB8LeAC3EdYl9UpifMjWJBfV7Oje6KQ_FYE8iTsN_jAp/w640-h426/tulip-fields-netherlands-007-Albert%20Dros.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Em laços de sorrisos</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Desabotoei-me de preconceitos</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>E abri a vontade feérica</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Como porta sedenta de receber.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A noite deitou-se ao meu lado</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Fiz amor com a lua</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>E o sol ciumento trancou-me o sentir.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Louco ...</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Percebi que o mundo escreve-se em olhares</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>E as palavras morrem à nascença</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Depois de ditas...mesmo sorridentes!</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : José Luís Outono</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cadernos ao Acaso - 2010</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Imagem : Alberto Dros</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-43336192391424243402024-02-25T23:30:00.000+00:002024-02-26T09:24:29.003+00:00Ilusão<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOJIoUcao3si-5VqwOzHsm85Pxl6kPJiZweFZmrsmfdYPDjdrtEKTmypR8x-01RPZ1Sf0hXQP8nMXxQq86F9RliedVe6FBt_oI-auokcJ0ow_H2t3zcC_azdRAV1a7UbItJ9f8Kz9wNORUDEvGvUJk04ifnGzo5HqNIGULUydEHGrbqAWhtG4pbR1Z4wG/s660/gina-vasquez44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="660" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOJIoUcao3si-5VqwOzHsm85Pxl6kPJiZweFZmrsmfdYPDjdrtEKTmypR8x-01RPZ1Sf0hXQP8nMXxQq86F9RliedVe6FBt_oI-auokcJ0ow_H2t3zcC_azdRAV1a7UbItJ9f8Kz9wNORUDEvGvUJk04ifnGzo5HqNIGULUydEHGrbqAWhtG4pbR1Z4wG/w640-h640/gina-vasquez44.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Vou estudar o enigma dos pássaros</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Abrir os braços e suave me tornar</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Para com eles ter direito a voar</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor :BeatriceM 2024-02-23</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Imagem : Gina Vasquez</i></div></span> BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-63009704341917558772024-02-24T15:23:00.000+00:002024-02-24T15:23:44.633+00:00Colina<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7eobCvCC5uZ-HeD33WTIAZHqZYcaesW9MlBIbtcBrL-JOFdR4VhtlAUkeqaH1zS3vWe7iblSMiBvcowBUYmDRVYNH6GaDjPdH5K-fDNxfcjmEU8dG8kTIirFsFJXRNVGZYaIjpVKkrVyXIxca5foBrg4Kqb3JzgjXRw_vYvFmeLyyB94l97rB-Cio2CL/s842/adrian-borda30.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7eobCvCC5uZ-HeD33WTIAZHqZYcaesW9MlBIbtcBrL-JOFdR4VhtlAUkeqaH1zS3vWe7iblSMiBvcowBUYmDRVYNH6GaDjPdH5K-fDNxfcjmEU8dG8kTIirFsFJXRNVGZYaIjpVKkrVyXIxca5foBrg4Kqb3JzgjXRw_vYvFmeLyyB94l97rB-Cio2CL/w608-h640/adrian-borda30.jpg" width="608" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Foi razão de colina</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Justo aquela</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Hoje tão oca</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mas tão bonita</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Nos seus vários tons de verde</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Estará lá</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Sempre alta</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Para quem quer encurtar</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>A distância até o céu</b></span></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Num vertiginoso</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Gole de gravidade</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>O mundo para</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Nada mais se torna</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Tornando-se o próprio nada</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Autor : André Rosa</span></i></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-13597180699515272162024-02-23T15:28:00.000+00:002024-02-23T15:28:34.472+00:00Desterro<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYu_rlArAXwPhgxlcpbypawjhSTCDbUiGUv3JGKIAsuwY8RgUK0KS3b9Z2xN3PqL9ONBzqK1WfRYuPVR7V1zzXVN6Y8SYuUbY-URE-HQ8ME6I0scTUy4zX_vJpBxR7jt4ldClE78MbHZL17GwVyzTh76OBz3KRNj9SOsEZRynxROcXFxc315uP_dxNZRt/s721/erik-johansson79.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="721" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYu_rlArAXwPhgxlcpbypawjhSTCDbUiGUv3JGKIAsuwY8RgUK0KS3b9Z2xN3PqL9ONBzqK1WfRYuPVR7V1zzXVN6Y8SYuUbY-URE-HQ8ME6I0scTUy4zX_vJpBxR7jt4ldClE78MbHZL17GwVyzTh76OBz3KRNj9SOsEZRynxROcXFxc315uP_dxNZRt/w640-h480/erik-johansson79.webp" width="640" /></a></p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">A minha vida</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">é um desterro sem retorno.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Não teve casa</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">minha errante infância perdida,</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">não tem terra</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">meu desterro.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">A minha vida navegou</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">em barco de nostalgia.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Vivi à margem do mar</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">olhando o horizonte:</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">tornava minha casa ignorada</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">um dia pensava em zarpar,</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">e a pressentida viagem</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">me deixou em outro porto de partida.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">É o amor, acaso,</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">o meu último cais?</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Oh braços que me fizeram prisioneira,</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">sem me dar abrigo…</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Também quis escapar</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">do cruel abraço.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Oh braços fugitivos,</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">que em vão buscaram minhas mãos…</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Incessante fuga</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">e anseio incessante</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">o amor não é porto seguro.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Já não há terra prometida</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">para a minha esperança.</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : Alaíde Foppa</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Imagem : Erik Johansson</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-65808578551026099562024-02-22T15:21:00.000+00:002024-02-22T15:21:19.258+00:00...<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyl2DipdD0462X6fVH9wz4Bpc5gewpNpMUhrcLaay_ScMQiw8y7_bB7qUyFvbBp0s5vwp96THjE3Z4Pm451V1kry4-Z9MLEnWq36FEjKhFM4DL9fqFKnehPYKmCQz5uVadEg5KEduytf-fl9KiY6LupOXbWfx0ZWBqemN0B4KhLdGXSNgqcYMh71b-_L6S/s900/boudoir213.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyl2DipdD0462X6fVH9wz4Bpc5gewpNpMUhrcLaay_ScMQiw8y7_bB7qUyFvbBp0s5vwp96THjE3Z4Pm451V1kry4-Z9MLEnWq36FEjKhFM4DL9fqFKnehPYKmCQz5uVadEg5KEduytf-fl9KiY6LupOXbWfx0ZWBqemN0B4KhLdGXSNgqcYMh71b-_L6S/w640-h640/boudoir213.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">À maçã</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">não lhe perguntes</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">quem é.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Outra forma</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">não há</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">de lhe reconhecer</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">o sabor</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Autor : Albano Martins</span></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-62963718938102443472024-02-21T16:36:00.000+00:002024-02-21T16:36:06.630+00:00Ser e não ser<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pmHHxZ_7iRKvtEdhRspleIvTK3jU7wGvbncvFXmeJl_yccYjHeiRBVn2brFuTJsFflkSKEAP-xkJ0-N6fgFyiuJ6c0N82fBEJA0VhyL4mWMtPJKFCMaBk9G73wXY6dhiWOz1JppnNFlp_2yQDFwD9rpU3jyV8PbSUCfAaicEjRroXz0jU3388fnwnI21/s548/9fc781134c5fcb5621fa46b6e27d21bd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pmHHxZ_7iRKvtEdhRspleIvTK3jU7wGvbncvFXmeJl_yccYjHeiRBVn2brFuTJsFflkSKEAP-xkJ0-N6fgFyiuJ6c0N82fBEJA0VhyL4mWMtPJKFCMaBk9G73wXY6dhiWOz1JppnNFlp_2yQDFwD9rpU3jyV8PbSUCfAaicEjRroXz0jU3388fnwnI21/w426-h640/9fc781134c5fcb5621fa46b6e27d21bd.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Entre mim e os livros na estante,</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">no espaço ocupado pela luz,</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">dão-se transformações</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">a que assisto quieta e calada.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Depois de olhar o ar,</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">cada palavra reflecte</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">o lugar invisível de onde veio o poema</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ou o silêncio que passou pela casa.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">A alma não escolhe a estação</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">nem prevê o detalhe do infinito.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Reparo com espanto infante</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">nos vestígios deste ritual,</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">os livros que não li</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">sabem de mim</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">e não dormem nunca.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor : Marta Chaves,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>IN Avalanche</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-10938194874235005042024-02-20T15:07:00.000+00:002024-02-20T15:07:38.791+00:00Escreve-se<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9WCdkL1yeflNKsSoZhpZWJieXk8Y0-ZSrcQ9PokGndclPoAZt_HHIb1x4kS6_ilzYlVf2U09sYcIX2bTAC6rZbxrOI2NGgDnn1_M6_T1sBXaVectHKVhcGrVzOBTeyX0AqZalFySqNICRJec4XUx4lhpAcbeCra3Xl1YgEUID1PXVVZk5c6OfJfB-3vy/s715/unnamed%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9WCdkL1yeflNKsSoZhpZWJieXk8Y0-ZSrcQ9PokGndclPoAZt_HHIb1x4kS6_ilzYlVf2U09sYcIX2bTAC6rZbxrOI2NGgDnn1_M6_T1sBXaVectHKVhcGrVzOBTeyX0AqZalFySqNICRJec4XUx4lhpAcbeCra3Xl1YgEUID1PXVVZk5c6OfJfB-3vy/s16000/unnamed%20(2).jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Escreve-se contra a vida, tu dizes.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Respondo que a métrica é a vida,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>que às sombras sobram mapas, raízes.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Que aí, nesse chão, caem rima e dúvida.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>São frutos de morte e dor indelével</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>o que essa voz dissonante persegue.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>São vaga-lumes de tinta ilegível</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>sobre campos de hierático sangue.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Escreve-se contra a vida, tu dizes.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Eu recolho-me, fio o meu casulo,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>abasteço-me de sonhos vorazes,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>anoto a ambição negativa, a rosa</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>escurecida que é do crepúsculo</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>a cinza e a frágil arte rumorosa.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Autor :Luís Quintais,</i></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>In Ângulo Morto</i></span></div>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5543341837369701512.post-25694774310156703182024-02-18T23:30:00.000+00:002024-02-19T15:18:28.029+00:00Oh!Noite!<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-MyJcoZJUHPIKafOQDtfc11TQkJZixtNGC9lZ1OC3nGL-GVIwrHNPUDgvwGaxpO8oVfJMaW89lBgro8KVKT20aKFJ3Wn9sIvhBLibyM-Cv2Lsu-k3suu4R05Jl01mU-hzjL4_SzD-_c8HNHMrxV33rAzvCAB5QciL5kAXFKfZXRp6Vu6ksOHD6aLyMhK/s957/Monia-Merlo-0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-MyJcoZJUHPIKafOQDtfc11TQkJZixtNGC9lZ1OC3nGL-GVIwrHNPUDgvwGaxpO8oVfJMaW89lBgro8KVKT20aKFJ3Wn9sIvhBLibyM-Cv2Lsu-k3suu4R05Jl01mU-hzjL4_SzD-_c8HNHMrxV33rAzvCAB5QciL5kAXFKfZXRp6Vu6ksOHD6aLyMhK/w602-h640/Monia-Merlo-0.jpg" width="602" /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Oh! Noite!</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A minha cama é o teu refúgio,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>que me abraça o corpo frio.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Algures noutro País,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>alguém procurará o refúgio noutra cama,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>e noutro corpo.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Amanhã, será outro dia.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>e a esperança desabrocha, quando o dia despontar.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>invadindo o meu quarto com raios de aurora.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Beatrice M 2024-02-18</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Imagem : Monia Merlo</i></div></span>BeatriceMarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00085921085881322928noreply@blogger.com1