Justine apoiada num fuste de uma coluna de Taposiris, a cabeça negra recortando-se contra a obscuridade murmurante da água, uma mecha desfeita pela brisa marinha, dizendo:
Na língua inglesa há uma única expressão que para mim tem significado:Time immemorial.
Lawrence Durrel
pindaro
1 comentário:
Share |
This Unimportant Morning
User Rating:
6.5 /10
(8 votes)
- vote - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Print friendly version
E-mail this poem to e friend
Send this poem as eCard
Add this poem to MyPoemList
This unimportant morning
Something goes singing where
The capes turn over on their sides
And the warm Adriatic rides
Her blue and sun washing
At the edge of the world and its brilliant cliffs.
Day rings in the higher airs
Pure with cicadas, and slowing
Like a pulse to smoke from farms,
Extinguished in the exhausted earth,
Unclenching like a fist and going.
Trees fume, cool, pour - and overflowing
Unstretch the feathers of birds and shake
Carpets from windows, brush with dew
The up-and-doing: and young lovers now
Their little resurrections make.
And now lightly to kiss all whom sleep
Stitched up - and wake, my darling, wake.
The impatient Boatman has been waiting
Under the house, his long oars folded up
Like wings in waiting on the darkling lake.
Lawrence Durrell
Enviar um comentário