AGOSTO

 

 

                                       Todas as cores

                                       da aquarela

                                       não valem

                                       uma pétala

                                       amarela

                                       do velho ipê

                                       ressequido

                                       que abre

                                       a umbela de flores

                                       quando agoniza

                                       agosto.

 

                                       Todos os amores

                                       encarnados

                                       não valem

                                       o amor

                                       calado

                                       que estiola

                                       apetalado

                                       no velho peito

                                       desterrado

                                       enquanto agoniza

                                       agosto.