Posts from março, 2014

Cores do mar, festa do sol

 

 

“Dormir no teu colo é tornar a nascer
Violeta e azul, outro ser
Luz do querer
Não vai desbotar, lilás cor do mar
Seda, cor de batom
Arco-íris crepom
Nada vai desbotar
Brinquedo de papel machê.”

 

 

“Papel Machê” (João Bosco / Capinan), com João

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVSlqIYE0rs#t=146&hd=1[/youtube]

 

 

 

 

Outre

 

 

                                                            OUTRE

 

                                                                                                                      Annie Salager

 

                                                           Des fois, aussi,

                                                           tout irisée se

                                                           balade naïve

                                                           une bulle

                                                           en la fraîcheur

                                                           du vent,

                                                           pourquoi si beau

                                                           dehors oh

                                                           pourquoi enfermée

                                                           elle se dit

                                                           et explose

                                                           aussitôt

                                                           du plaisir

                                                           d`exploser

 

 

bolha de sabão

 

 

                                     ALÉM

 

                                                                                     Tradução de Adalberto de Oliveira Souza

 

                                    Às vezes, também,

                                   bem irisada

                                   vagueia ingênua

                                   uma bolha

                                   na aragem do vento,

                                   por que tão belo

                                   fora, oh

                                   por que aprisionada

                                   ela se diz

                                   e explode

                                   tão somente

                                   pelo prazer

                                   de explodir