a metodologia profana é o desvendar dos dedos.
frágil meio que versa a comunhão do Ser
sem perceber que a coexistência
é um labirinto de vaidades rendilhadas,
albergando breves compassos
plenos de momentos individualizados.
vozes são erigidas diariamente para a subsistência das duas esculturas,
mas é semanalmente que se contraem os voos.
planicies são ilusão.
não há cornucópias na dobra do horizonte.
e, no regaço do declive, os estios serão sempre sazonais.
the profane methodology is the unveiling of fingers.
frail medium about the fellowship of being
unaware that coexistence is a maze of laced vanities,
harboring brief compasses
filled with individual moments.
daily voices are raised to the livelihoods of the two sculptures,
but it’s weekly that flights are constricted.
plains are illusions.
there’re no cornucopias on the horizon bends.
and, in the slope’s lap, summers will always be seasonal.
“I YEARS had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business,—just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?
I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.
I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.
I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.
I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.”
Emily Dickinson (1830–86)
Para todas as Mães,
passadas, presentes e futuras,
que nos fizeram nascer.
O Fruto do Amor é entre Vós.
For all Mothers,
past, present and future,
that gave us existence.
The Fruit of Love is within You.