Miradouro de Santa Iria, São Miguel, Açores
31 março, 2022
30 março, 2022
29 março, 2022
28 março, 2022
27 março, 2022
24 março, 2022
Parece que estou a ouvir #356
Passam hoje 17,500 dias desde o 25 de Abril de 1974 que instaurou a democracia em Portugal, mais um dia do que os 17,499 dias que passaram entre esse dia e o golpe militar de 28 de Maio de 1926 que instaurou a ditadura. Democracias jovens (e antigas) cuidem-se! Fica um postal de agradecimento a Salgueiro Maia que personificou a luta desinteressada pelos direitos de todos e a letra de um poema de concórdia e paz.
__________
de Zeca Afonso
Amigo
Maior que o pensamento
Por essa estrada amigo vem
Por essa estrada amigo vem
Não percas tempo que o vento
É meu amigo também
Não percas tempo que o vento
É meu amigo também
Em terras
Em todas as fronteiras
Seja bem vindo quem vier por bem
Se alguém houver que não queira
Trá-lo contigo também
Aqueles
Aqueles que ficaram
(Em toda a parte todo o mundo tem)
Em sonhos me visitaram
Traz outro amigo também
Amigo
Maior que o pensamento
Por essa estrada amigo vem
Por essa estrada amigo vem
Não percas tempo que o vento
É meu amigo também
Não percas tempo que o vento
É meu amigo também
Em terras
Em todas as fronteiras
Seja bem vindo quem vier por bem
Se alguém houver que não queira
Trá-lo contigo também
Aqueles
Aqueles que ficaram
(Em toda a parte todo o mundo tem)
Em sonhos me visitaram
Traz outro amigo também
23 março, 2022
22 março, 2022
Parece que estou a ouvir #355
Somewhat familiar ballad but not quite... just like Ukraine's historical path
by Barclay James Harvest
(from the 1987 album Face to Face)
But now the whole world's watching you
If we could help you then you know we would
But we don't know just what to do
Eye to eye our ways are not the same
We never tried to understand
But it could pass to each of us you name
Then who's the one to take the blame
Kiev, a candle with a flame
You'll never be the same
Our hearts go out to you
And what you're going through
They've thrown away your past
Just like an empty glass
Into the fire
Someone wiser took the Steppe from you
I'm sure with reason it was right
But now it seems the whole world's blaming you
And who's the one to put things right
Kiev, a candle with a flame
You'll never be the same
Our hearts go out to you
And what you're going through
They've thrown away your past
Just like an empty glass
Into the fire
Oh, Kiev, a candle with a flame
You'll never be the same
We all will understand
You're really not to blame
They've thrown away your past
Just like an empty glass
Into the fire
Oh, Kiev
But it could pass to each of us you name
Then who's the one to take the blame
Kiev, a candle with a flame
You'll never be the same
Our hearts go out to you
And what you're going through
They've thrown away your past
Just like an empty glass
Into the fire
Someone wiser took the Steppe from you
I'm sure with reason it was right
But now it seems the whole world's blaming you
And who's the one to put things right
Kiev, a candle with a flame
You'll never be the same
Our hearts go out to you
And what you're going through
They've thrown away your past
Just like an empty glass
Into the fire
Oh, Kiev, a candle with a flame
You'll never be the same
We all will understand
You're really not to blame
They've thrown away your past
Just like an empty glass
Into the fire
Oh, Kiev
21 março, 2022
Palavras lidas #508
Debtors
by Jim Harrison
They used to say we’re living on borrowed
time but even when young I wondered
who loaned it to us? In 1948 one grandpa
died stretched tight in a misty oxygen tent,
his four sons gathered, his papery hand
grasping mine. Only a week before, we were fishing.
Now the four sons have all run out of borrowed time
while I’m alive wondering whom I owe
for this indisputable gift of existence.
Of course time is running out. It always
has been a creek heading east, the freight
of water with its surprising heaviness
following the slant of the land, its destiny.
What is lovelier than a creek or riverine thicket?
Say it is an unknown benefactor who gave us
birds and Mozart, the mystery of trees and water
and all living things borrowing time.
Would I still love the creek if I lasted forever?
by Jim Harrison
They used to say we’re living on borrowed
time but even when young I wondered
who loaned it to us? In 1948 one grandpa
died stretched tight in a misty oxygen tent,
his four sons gathered, his papery hand
grasping mine. Only a week before, we were fishing.
Now the four sons have all run out of borrowed time
while I’m alive wondering whom I owe
for this indisputable gift of existence.
Of course time is running out. It always
has been a creek heading east, the freight
of water with its surprising heaviness
following the slant of the land, its destiny.
What is lovelier than a creek or riverine thicket?
Say it is an unknown benefactor who gave us
birds and Mozart, the mystery of trees and water
and all living things borrowing time.
Would I still love the creek if I lasted forever?
20 março, 2022
Ditto #507
--Joan Didion
18 março, 2022
17 março, 2022
16 março, 2022
15 março, 2022
14 março, 2022
13 março, 2022
12 março, 2022
11 março, 2022
Palavras lidas #507
Imaginary Conversation
by Linda Pastan
You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.
But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?
You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.
You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.
But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?
You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.
10 março, 2022
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