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por Carla Hilário Quevedo, em 26.10.07
The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart
by Margaret Atwood

I do not mean the symbol
of love, a candy shape
to decorate cakes with,
the heart that is supposed
to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle
that contracts like a flayed biceps,
purple-blue, with its skin of suet,
its skin of gristle, this isolate,
this caved hermit, unshelled
turtle, this one lungful of blood,
no happy plateful.

All heart float in their own
deep oceans of no light,
wetblack and glimmering,
their four mouths gulping like fish.
Hearts are said to pound:
this is to be expected, the heart's
regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitous,
though no twin as I once thought.
It says, I want, I don't want, I
want, and then a pause.
It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child's fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don't want.
How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.

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publicado às 21:21


por Carla Hilário Quevedo, em 26.10.07
Eu hoje acordei assim...

Eva Green

... e Tony Soprano, fartinho de Paulie até à ponta dos cabelos que não tem, a sentir aquele desprezo visceral a que tantos chamam ódio (e bem, agora que penso nisso), a contar que Paulie na juventude até era caladinho, discreto, Gary fucking Cooper...

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publicado às 08:05