Meu Diário

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                .

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              .

           Literalmente cheio  da “Biscoito Fino” e da tal nova música de Chico Buarque, mas sem a mínima pretensão de me comparar a ele, publico aqui alguns versos que escrevinhei há algum tempo, com mote semelhante.

           Na ocasião, pensei numa letra de música, mas como estava sem contato com Brenno, meu dileto parceiro, ficaram apenas os versos.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                .

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                .

                                                         Meu Diário

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  .

                                             Toda manhã,

                                             a campainha do relógio

                                             me acorda de supetão,

                                             tomo o café

                                             sem sentir o gosto

                                             mastigo um pedaço de pão

                                             e saio para a rua

                                             andando na contramão.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 .

                                             Todo dia,

                                             na esquina ou no botequim

                                             acenam para mim

                                             o bilhete premiado

                                             do macaco ou da avestruz,

                                             mas eu digo que não

                                             e ao mendigo esfaimado

                                             que me estende a mão

                                             alivio da sua cruz

                                             com generoso tostão.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             .

                                             Toda tarde,

                                             depois de aturar o patrão

                                             assisto bovino

                                             a crimes e mortes

                                             ao vivo na televisão,

                                             ao grave pronunciamento

                                             do chefe da nação,

                                             ao bispo trovejante

                                             que ameaça com o tormento

                                             e promete a salvação.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              .

                                             Toda noite,

                                             insone e insolvente

                                             no seu corpo desnudo

                                             se acoita este coitado

                                             e então num só segundo

                                             a vida me é um presente

                                             que recompensa por tudo.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              .

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              .

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              .