Um pensamento tolo, uma
cisma estúpida, e ela?
Ela não me ouve, sorrir do
meu jeito bobo de lidar
com as coisas que não são
coisas minhas.
Um palito jogado no canto
da boca, um cantarolar
sem sentido e os olhos
franzidos olhando pro sol
esquecidos do suor que
escorre da minha testa até
cair no chão.
A gota de suor cai e o
barulho da sua queda me
desperta da displicência
com que vejo a vida.
Aperto os olhos para ver
onde o suor caiu e caio em
mim.
Percebo, com certo
deboche, um pensamento
tolo vagando em minha
mente e então implico
com a cisma que cisma de
tudo, inclusive comigo
mesmo.
E ela?
Ela se recusa a me ouvir,
e sem ser ouvido, me
sinto um tolo.
Tolo engulo o meu jeito
bobo e admito não saber
lidar com as coisas que
não são coisas minhas
ainda que estas roubem a
minha paz.
Mauro Lucio - Brasília, maio de 2013.
*
A silly thought, a
stupid notion and what
about her?
She doesn’t listen to me; she smiles at
my silly way of dealing
with things that aren’t
my business.
A toothpick tucked in the corner
of her mouth, a
meaningless hum, and her eyes
squinted as she looks at the sun,
oblivious to the sweat that
runs down my forehead until
it hits the ground.
The drop of sweat falls, and the
sound of its fall
wakes me from the indifference
with which I view life.
I squint to see
where the sweat fell and find
myself.
I notice, with a certain
mockery, a foolish thought
wandering through my
mind, and then I take issue
with the brooding that broods over
everything, including myself.
And what about her?
She refuses to listen to me,
and without being heard, I
feel like a fool.
Like a fool, I swallow my
silly ways and admit I don’t know
how to deal with things that
aren’t mine
even though they steal
my peace.
She doesn’t listen to me; she smiles at
my silly way of dealing
with things that aren’t
my business.
A toothpick tucked in the corner
of her mouth, a
meaningless hum, and her eyes
squinted as she looks at the sun,
oblivious to the sweat that
runs down my forehead until
it hits the ground.
The drop of sweat falls, and the
sound of its fall
wakes me from the indifference
with which I view life.
I squint to see
where the sweat fell and find
myself.
I notice, with a certain
mockery, a foolish thought
wandering through my
mind, and then I take issue
with the brooding that broods over
everything, including myself.
And what about her?
She refuses to listen to me,
and without being heard, I
feel like a fool.
Like a fool, I swallow my
silly ways and admit I don’t know
how to deal with things that
aren’t mine
even though they steal
my peace.
*
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