Três poemas

Laura

Since dawn she has been with me, Laura, alone in a private sphere.

Solitude I name this closed system where all things are alive. At this first
hour I bank neither with my days nor with my nights, but under a quite
separate account, all that is about me shares my being there. The walls of
my room are a circumscription created by my will. The light of the lamp is a
sort of consciousness. The unscribbled sheet before me is clear and populous
as a sleeplessness. I brood over my illuminated hands as though they were
the pieces of some game of innumerable gambits. The whole complex of every
instant is present to my senses.

For Laura to appear, all things must be exactly thus, all must ensure my
being ideally alone. Laura demands, as she also inhabits, a silence
bristling with expectations, in which at times I become what I am awaiting.
She catches the whispering between my daemon and my desire. Her white face
is indistinct enough, but not her gaze. What a precision of power!...
Wherever my eyes settle, they carry hers with them. And if I close my lids
at last, her own are widely raised and asking. The power to question of
these eyes transfixes me, and sometimes it happens that I cannot bear their
unwavering depth any longer.

Then it is that the too enchanting fragrance of the dress that Laura wore,
of the hands and of the hair of the real Laura, the Laura who was flesh, is
born again from nothing; it dumbfounds my thinking, mingled or thickened
with the bitter perfume of the dead leaves one burns at autumn's end, and I
fall heartlong into a magic sadness.
(Paul Valery)



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

your slightest look easily will 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 colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
(Edward Eastlin Cummings)


I am the escaped one,
After I was born
They locked me up inside me
But I left.
My soul seeks me,
Through hills and valley,
I hope my soul
Never finds me.
(Fernando Pessoa)