tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74318450733091450792024-03-18T17:00:38.634+00:00HOMO VIATORHomo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.comBlogger3733125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-82463617936791618792024-03-18T16:59:00.003+00:002024-03-18T16:59:39.753+00:00O sal do silêncio (112)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigBHNwG9pq4LGXtRJ4avzcH2Ez3crCKPOSnNVDsXpuV0CnhM_BqYoy1NyrE7wrzdUBP_dxkOZ7odzFH9LwQpr7pBKBahWY66OjdH2MJprPSwRHQkq5608iADwOYEHmaq2DXOGcRhSnXECFIjJacc7g9WhSmyx442PtVVkRAjzZaUgCrYx98j6aMJ-TjTI0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="800" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigBHNwG9pq4LGXtRJ4avzcH2Ez3crCKPOSnNVDsXpuV0CnhM_BqYoy1NyrE7wrzdUBP_dxkOZ7odzFH9LwQpr7pBKBahWY66OjdH2MJprPSwRHQkq5608iADwOYEHmaq2DXOGcRhSnXECFIjJacc7g9WhSmyx442PtVVkRAjzZaUgCrYx98j6aMJ-TjTI0=w640-h472" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Juan Antonio Aguirre, <i>Bailarinas</i>, 1990</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Dançam a sagração da Primavera envoltas no azul dos oceanos. Bacantes sem mácula, transportam a voz do deus no silêncio da boca. Giram, rodopiam, elevam-se da terra e a ela voltam. A sua leveza é o sal com que salgam o segredo do mundo, o enigma do sangue, o mistério da paixão.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-73927382639050443642024-03-16T12:44:00.000+00:002024-03-16T12:44:37.412+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (12)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhC0pRMGsGICa0c_OgFu3iPGBwrslKRvu6IqLyK4C2UXJTt2KRprvRgQy0Lt4tWm9cf8csJNTYYD-NFfM3o16omEPNjiOm_2gGoZ8UPdV7B-YPBxezxIA2Qjxco7KVm4KujryiXNX3X56QNVLxF9fk2E3vwwb8TGjpCSnR7O-AgTIagMUL0zNbC94e4Edy9" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="800" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhC0pRMGsGICa0c_OgFu3iPGBwrslKRvu6IqLyK4C2UXJTt2KRprvRgQy0Lt4tWm9cf8csJNTYYD-NFfM3o16omEPNjiOm_2gGoZ8UPdV7B-YPBxezxIA2Qjxco7KVm4KujryiXNX3X56QNVLxF9fk2E3vwwb8TGjpCSnR7O-AgTIagMUL0zNbC94e4Edy9=w640-h528" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gilles Aillaud, <i>Deserto</i>, 1986</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;"><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Muda o
mundo, na vereda do tempo.</span></i></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Estações vêm,
estações vão, sem fim.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">O Inverno decaiu,
sombra morta<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">no jardim onde
as rosas declinam.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">No rumor
azul do vento, escuta-se<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">uma voz fremente,
a pura essência<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">do que passa
sem deixar um sinal<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">ou um rasto
na areia do deserto.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Trazer
mundos dos jardins esquecidos,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Trazer sombras
dos Invernos passados,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Trazer rosas
da vereda da morte.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sou o vento
que apaga os rastos,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">a voz pura
que fremente se cala<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">o sinal que no
deserto se esconde.</span></i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Março de
2024<o:p></o:p></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"> <br /><br /></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-15908229955268366142024-03-14T17:54:00.000+00:002024-03-14T17:54:02.676+00:00Câmara discreta (20)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-kRAD1oM8KCF8MYnAwxYBBq6I_NuuFMYjgWBrJ-zXBt1gkLsZOJxnSvDFPQRPRsQUyfTXqMGPgH4PDh1DP0orBetj8t4mPkgdGJZjR1DcDDYkmFWafp8mqpr-vyQxtY5GrOOA1u8AuWmOCEFApTBWfsZ1VEvLrbQrbxm7QO6IcfWEiH0cenrBdAnVSWhn" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1158" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-kRAD1oM8KCF8MYnAwxYBBq6I_NuuFMYjgWBrJ-zXBt1gkLsZOJxnSvDFPQRPRsQUyfTXqMGPgH4PDh1DP0orBetj8t4mPkgdGJZjR1DcDDYkmFWafp8mqpr-vyQxtY5GrOOA1u8AuWmOCEFApTBWfsZ1VEvLrbQrbxm7QO6IcfWEiH0cenrBdAnVSWhn=w640-h416" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">E</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">d
van der Elsken, <i>Self-portrait with Ata Kandó</i>, 1953</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Surpreender-se a si mesmo, deixar-se apanhar pela câmara que está nas próprias mãos, olhar-se no momento em que se observava. Depois, deixar vir uma longa e lenta interrogação. Quem é aquele que vejo? Assim começa uma exercício de demorada violência, um caminho em que a faca afiada da dúvida corta o pano frágil da certeza. Uma coisa é a identidade recebida na passividade da existência, uma outra é a identidade conquistada através do duro combate iniciado pela inocente pergunta <i>quem sou eu</i>?</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-67748844310106365652024-03-12T18:11:00.000+00:002024-03-12T18:11:00.663+00:00Geometrias de fogo (27)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIhNUUTQAu2B_eirQwmnZ_BKCqO8_2Pc8tF4TK9utVKtWX3GxpHpV6P5uI9lWvKlKYLXcDgV-EKN2vyS-ztIC0H7HiBcaBwE-5ZHCKxOioJEU9mwJ-9-1KIyrn85Ey1tB2_lfb3rxdtlVuQmf2-yxSRkyKEcppMN_Rmhb_yptCd04jKbHUihobrLtPSXW-" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="745" data-original-width="992" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIhNUUTQAu2B_eirQwmnZ_BKCqO8_2Pc8tF4TK9utVKtWX3GxpHpV6P5uI9lWvKlKYLXcDgV-EKN2vyS-ztIC0H7HiBcaBwE-5ZHCKxOioJEU9mwJ-9-1KIyrn85Ey1tB2_lfb3rxdtlVuQmf2-yxSRkyKEcppMN_Rmhb_yptCd04jKbHUihobrLtPSXW-=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Joaquim Rodrigo, <i>Trás-os-Montes</i>, 1964 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/tras-os-montes-139052/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Há uma geometria de fogo na geografia da Terra. A incandescência esconde-se para além do horizonte, mas retorna sobre as planícies, as montanhas e os vales, desenhando triângulos e rectângulos. Por vezes, deslizam do céu círculos perfeitos. Logo se transformam em hexágonos e, mais à frente, em pentágonos. Quando a Lua nasce, o fogo é reabsorvido pela noite e a Terra descansa da sua ardente geografia.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-5092487335062671112024-03-10T11:34:00.002+00:002024-03-10T11:34:56.972+00:00No limiar (16)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHnxd1ypCA9Z9s8Ksb71WXELOgprDnouWSDrVOqQvvYaevBxYeWfpabMYank7DThqO47e9BpPohTNcjTn8MzLmq5sbkvokWk7HeVxovu5zQ7pti3HO8LbSnkizH0g4SusK5RsqYqafoBieaE8nCEpZzdjv1BrYqcnku7UMnhkDDwAVneDQpA_0RhF5YBwH" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="700" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHnxd1ypCA9Z9s8Ksb71WXELOgprDnouWSDrVOqQvvYaevBxYeWfpabMYank7DThqO47e9BpPohTNcjTn8MzLmq5sbkvokWk7HeVxovu5zQ7pti3HO8LbSnkizH0g4SusK5RsqYqafoBieaE8nCEpZzdjv1BrYqcnku7UMnhkDDwAVneDQpA_0RhF5YBwH=w640-h406" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Victor Palla, sem título, 1990 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/s-titulo-108/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">As figuras hesitam na fímbria da realidade. Ainda não estão certas da sua essência e temem aventurar-se numa existência que lhes seja estranha. Movem-se em ambientes translúcidos, evitam a transparência, enquanto tudo à sua volta está mergulhado no oceano inquieto da indecisão, nas águas turvas onde nem o dia nem a noite são nítidos. Por vezes, aproximam-se umas das outras. Procuram a irmandade dos que já deixaram a terra deserta do nada, mas ainda não chegaram às planícies exuberantes do ser. Buscam na fraternidade consolação, como aqueles que chegaram à existência a encontram ao poisar os olhos num ramo de camélias.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-91343689285319919932024-03-08T16:25:00.001+00:002024-03-08T16:25:36.763+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (11)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeGdFUbryLLARcz7ao2_59T3BzUKWN1AQzhVGuaNqTNiOJ71oAnmRssNqLmY6jYzd1VrVeKeXGsPJA0e8lHiY7Kd02pDpmSVn_D2zMnYPVMS1rZ-88oxLDm116NJz0TWBrhsf7QS95rrqvkslzkOKkVjIX1--RlkdrZQUNA5jLJpFAF7sHLUbSMgZU9v7M" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="640" height="491" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeGdFUbryLLARcz7ao2_59T3BzUKWN1AQzhVGuaNqTNiOJ71oAnmRssNqLmY6jYzd1VrVeKeXGsPJA0e8lHiY7Kd02pDpmSVn_D2zMnYPVMS1rZ-88oxLDm116NJz0TWBrhsf7QS95rrqvkslzkOKkVjIX1--RlkdrZQUNA5jLJpFAF7sHLUbSMgZU9v7M=w640-h491" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mário de Oliveira, <i>Lucalena de las Torres,</i> 1967 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/lucalena-de-las-torres-156890/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Uma voz sediciosa
soletra</span></i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">a palavra e
a revolta de Inverno.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">As estrelas
rodopiam ao vento,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">astros mudos
no silêncio da sombra <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Apressado,
veio Março tomado<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">pelo canto
dos antigos profetas.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Folhas
mortas, castas, caem das árvores,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">sussurrando sortilégios
e espantos.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Pelas frias
avenidas de Inverno,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">do silêncio
soletrado virão <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">inocentes as
palavras de sal.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Auspícios
descem de bocas caladas.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Os profetas
são agora estátuas<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">nos jardins onde
os mortos se calam.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Março de
2024</p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-63126643703949703672024-03-06T19:32:00.000+00:002024-03-06T19:32:04.512+00:00Arqueologias do espírito 29<p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3zgcFN2ayI_8i22FIygkD6218h7Ynl057tpqfenFIAE-hO_A2_RgVCD_th0-JZ8NfWrxmaXAZFFAyv_sabckPvgLio0AevVmYxrsuz9ODAUefI_C8tjSeEj8SySdpw6b1lyn-MuecxK4g-f7AepCvFSp3Ofn38j4E2J3vnuON1DMeMbP5uMyJzkdTtMVm" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1085" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3zgcFN2ayI_8i22FIygkD6218h7Ynl057tpqfenFIAE-hO_A2_RgVCD_th0-JZ8NfWrxmaXAZFFAyv_sabckPvgLio0AevVmYxrsuz9ODAUefI_C8tjSeEj8SySdpw6b1lyn-MuecxK4g-f7AepCvFSp3Ofn38j4E2J3vnuON1DMeMbP5uMyJzkdTtMVm=w640-h298" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ferdinand Olivier, <i>Procession of Pilgrims in the Forest</i>, 1814</span> </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; line-height: 195%;">Talvez o espírito tenha descido sobre os homens na sombra da floresta. Ali, aquele animal desprotegido encontrava abrigo e, por instantes, podia esquecer o medo terrível que o envolvia. Sob os ramos do arvoredo, escutava a passagem do vento pelas folhas e descobria os raios luminosos que fendiam a copa das árvores para reverberarem na erva húmida. Por vezes, os homens encontravam-se na clareira e deixavam que a luz os banhasse, mas logo o perigo de estarem expostos os fazia voltar para a sombra, onde se sentavam e narravam longamente as aventuras que tinham vivido ou que inventavam naquela hora. Ao contar, ao inventar, uma propriedade nova nascia dentro de cada um e arrancava-o à pura animalidade de onde tinha vindo. Era o espírito que descia sobre ele e o tornava num outro ser.</span></div><br /><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-16212486098961461032024-03-03T19:37:00.004+00:002024-03-03T19:37:42.720+00:00A sombra da água (27)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCKIwGNfWLEzutcQJK8NqveSdOrdFcSGLZtn2Hng1Jtqzl9gOXgXlx_1BuU7waA_4aBHFyNagn9nZakKWjcpMiKF7PdVm06WWzUzb-xhNxgiVkVEIbHCyQcH_2-IghtQDtBAbeUb0uEZkEgdzwlJQ1pOlhdPAoAxKmAX7C---YKJx1LdbetTYnPuSNrJIp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="640" height="533" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCKIwGNfWLEzutcQJK8NqveSdOrdFcSGLZtn2Hng1Jtqzl9gOXgXlx_1BuU7waA_4aBHFyNagn9nZakKWjcpMiKF7PdVm06WWzUzb-xhNxgiVkVEIbHCyQcH_2-IghtQDtBAbeUb0uEZkEgdzwlJQ1pOlhdPAoAxKmAX7C---YKJx1LdbetTYnPuSNrJIp=w640-h533" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fernando Calhau, sem título #441, 1980 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/stitulo-441-152164/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">A água é uma sombra projectada sobre a superfície da Terra. Avança fremente pelos canais desenhados por um arquitecto preso ao flúor da alucinação, rasga as velhas rochas para descobrir um caminho nunca pensado, cobre os abismos para que os mortais possam descansar os seus olhos sem temer a dor da queda.</span></span></div><br /><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-19584199998842102472024-03-01T17:17:00.003+00:002024-03-01T17:17:30.432+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (10)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgalj1Sck9amrIqwUFuBXAsnyUEz7uj9CTUUtTKewN3oi_HuyJDsZ9dGev63xbcLOwDeQQKxhvm4uP-16IPFvSeltZDyDV7_bV_JCjIR3S__BYPQYLoXJFvIa1grxOnqqbvll3wFUTE-CbzI5QDafq5WlJ9e7_r22sx1O_mgegCPwpZK-lQkYSCZZw-p361" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="640" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgalj1Sck9amrIqwUFuBXAsnyUEz7uj9CTUUtTKewN3oi_HuyJDsZ9dGev63xbcLOwDeQQKxhvm4uP-16IPFvSeltZDyDV7_bV_JCjIR3S__BYPQYLoXJFvIa1grxOnqqbvll3wFUTE-CbzI5QDafq5WlJ9e7_r22sx1O_mgegCPwpZK-lQkYSCZZw-p361=w640-h476" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">José Dominguez Alvarez, sem título (<i>Aspecto de rua com figuras</i>) (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/sem-titulo-aspecto-de-rua-com-figuras-154520/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A tristeza
destes dias de frio,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">sob um sol
sem o motim do Verão.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Nostalgia
dos murmúrios da infância,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">desventura
duma vida exígua.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Devoradas
pelo tempo, as horas<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">rodopiam
perturbadas sem parar.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Turbilhão
feito de ócio e dor,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">a penumbra
dum sonoro segredo.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A infância
deambula nos dedos<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">com que
colho a nostalgia da vida,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">tão exígua
na ventura que houve.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Eis o
vórtice onde tudo se perde,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">turbilhão,
dor infinita das horas,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">onde canto
em secreto silêncio.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i> </i></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Fevereiro de
2024<o:p></o:p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-6318017891323655972024-02-28T15:19:00.000+00:002024-02-28T15:19:02.347+00:00O sal do silêncio (111)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhH78HQcF9-pyRjW7Yrj5h-c__rTwaoS6Ynbt96pdn399e_qNpIDqGgZBIFngNyk0mdbp5f2TTHVxEqpoz0hLO-2mC-aYSien3L5BtSE4JO9XfF1X1c_AOOU3cT-ggf0cP7SgzPHc-oY4Yryj5CmpLvw__jjjGV6XbUwmngOPuxPVgZExqTilJstBagdwX8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="640" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhH78HQcF9-pyRjW7Yrj5h-c__rTwaoS6Ynbt96pdn399e_qNpIDqGgZBIFngNyk0mdbp5f2TTHVxEqpoz0hLO-2mC-aYSien3L5BtSE4JO9XfF1X1c_AOOU3cT-ggf0cP7SgzPHc-oY4Yryj5CmpLvw__jjjGV6XbUwmngOPuxPVgZExqTilJstBagdwX8=w640-h500" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">João Dixo, <i>Quem pinta, pinta-se,</i> 1978 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/quem-pinta-pinta-se-154636/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">A reflexividade dos nossos actos é um pacto com o silêncio. Entre o que fazemos e o que somos, nesse interstício que vai de nós a nós, há um silêncio de fundo, tão radical que raramente damos por ele. É nele, porém, que unimos a poeira do que fazemos ao sal que somos.</span></span></div><br /><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-23493528120914367762024-02-26T19:59:00.006+00:002024-02-26T19:59:41.735+00:00A memória do ar (26)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpe5bAaU5ASPjbbAbnEgmtP3CDh0cVlDWARX4YgmIvhXNaSf-RooiHgZZE5t56wC_dmxnq2NzSSl55Z4pUv__nEfA0OMgXac6cIYvgwnxi0kzNoRJ0NrQ0Dk1nNR-JrDu2gIHGZq6bYCit6I5aeFiWFcanvIeou8yPYbjRmSbyXMG1HdzTvy0NZLvjv3ay" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="640" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpe5bAaU5ASPjbbAbnEgmtP3CDh0cVlDWARX4YgmIvhXNaSf-RooiHgZZE5t56wC_dmxnq2NzSSl55Z4pUv__nEfA0OMgXac6cIYvgwnxi0kzNoRJ0NrQ0Dk1nNR-JrDu2gIHGZq6bYCit6I5aeFiWFcanvIeou8yPYbjRmSbyXMG1HdzTvy0NZLvjv3ay=w640-h476" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Maria Helena Vieira da Silva, <i>L'air du vent</i>, 1966 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/lair-du-vent-147116/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Voar, eis o vício do vento. Deslocar-se sobre os segredos dos homens, para os envolver no tremendo da ventania, no terrível do vendaval. Por vezes, o ar toma o nome de ciclone, corre apressado numa fúria desmedida, desloca-se em turbilhão, como se fosse habitado por uma raiva despida de razões, como se tivesse cansado de segredos e de homens.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-61992344790775861692024-02-24T13:08:00.000+00:002024-02-24T13:08:16.734+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (9)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMS4rV0W_Pw0WRzrlQDBbSvrLJ4c_ZhQn16ABeShZaxAb9iK748RYTvmN14HOif2_dCW8XH8P-CqDG-fuk8T5yZaL3jC9EA9Qn-RmD4zTBMUr2qajGLES9sEVBCHPhHGwQSwI6qTS3f-CdFtFlPmcl0wl_PW5_jDFqbdH977pPXaMhWb5blU-qplnUXzBx" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="1039" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMS4rV0W_Pw0WRzrlQDBbSvrLJ4c_ZhQn16ABeShZaxAb9iK748RYTvmN14HOif2_dCW8XH8P-CqDG-fuk8T5yZaL3jC9EA9Qn-RmD4zTBMUr2qajGLES9sEVBCHPhHGwQSwI6qTS3f-CdFtFlPmcl0wl_PW5_jDFqbdH977pPXaMhWb5blU-qplnUXzBx=w640-h436" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Muirhead Bone, <i>View of Rome at Sunset</i>, c. 1912</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A paisagem
assombrada da tarde,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">vendaval
vindo no voo do vento,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">as mulheres
de cabelos revoltos,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">os cavalos
delicados da noite.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Vou, de
Inverno em Inverno, sombrio,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">faço luz na
escuridão da caverna,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">onde oiço o
ecoar da memória<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">afogada no
silêncio do tempo.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Cavaleiro
sem cavalo na noite.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">É a hora de
rasgar o caminho<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">na paisagem fria
e negra de névoa.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sou o eco
que rasura a memória.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sou a luz
branca da escura caverna.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sou o tempo
e a sombra de Inverno.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="text-align: center;">
</p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Fevereiro
de 2024</span> </div><br /><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-40679231265647469672024-02-22T14:42:00.002+00:002024-02-22T14:42:42.127+00:00Geometrias de fogo (26)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxbujL6L2k2RowWJlDxv2i7z7uiskb29UlUcYSwxzBA1pE70HRuO_YNcVyJbD8g5bJ8rXx1kcTullQLL3QgXnoGQA8gpOYfOCaf55Sqn3ZYOZUTo8YANvulFz2-gyF-DP4AajU8LdUqqBUTcCHQ71cbnz38SQmQ6xIUo37GloN9VCGDb2CafHoeQzu-uyl" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="1296" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxbujL6L2k2RowWJlDxv2i7z7uiskb29UlUcYSwxzBA1pE70HRuO_YNcVyJbD8g5bJ8rXx1kcTullQLL3QgXnoGQA8gpOYfOCaf55Sqn3ZYOZUTo8YANvulFz2-gyF-DP4AajU8LdUqqBUTcCHQ71cbnz38SQmQ6xIUo37GloN9VCGDb2CafHoeQzu-uyl=w640-h470" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Anton Zwengauer, <i>Landscape with Deer at Sunset</i>, 1847</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Era um lago habitado por um fogo plácido, um incêndio de pétalas reconciliado com a água e a terra, desejoso de serenidade, amante dos dias de sol e das noites estreladas. Um fogo feito de frutos resplandecentes e de esperanças sensatas, um fogo inclinado para o crepúsculo, um fogo que se move lentamente entre ás águas paradas e o sangue desatinado do coração.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-13544739678037147112024-02-20T15:05:00.003+00:002024-02-20T15:05:46.808+00:00A sombra da água (26)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj56bAWTyb75VZWfXfXNIIwBwpuwsdW_iJzhpZwAiIwBCoMk5zyD1rHquAaBpzmqKhVdo_gdpwN67R4nMcAfwb9ngicz0wG187_VO4QxpQofmmjaKeSsgD8ofk1iZOHbypoqF1qpieOT3ve3LpaNODOguYqUc5CWJ0RWsaohn5BKWsoCnUFPajQPFT_8j4_" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="800" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj56bAWTyb75VZWfXfXNIIwBwpuwsdW_iJzhpZwAiIwBCoMk5zyD1rHquAaBpzmqKhVdo_gdpwN67R4nMcAfwb9ngicz0wG187_VO4QxpQofmmjaKeSsgD8ofk1iZOHbypoqF1qpieOT3ve3LpaNODOguYqUc5CWJ0RWsaohn5BKWsoCnUFPajQPFT_8j4_=w640-h500" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Piotr Mondrian, <i>Farm with Trees and Water</i>, 1906</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; line-height: 195%;">É uma água sem o sal da viagem, sem a sombra das noites. Irrompe pura na Terra ou cai solícita dos céus. Nela, não há navios, nem os pescadores procuram a harmonia dos peixes. De noite, murmura canções tecidas com o fio do silêncio; de dia, deixa que da sua boca se evapore um hálito de rosas.</span></div><br /><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-46915348782030162242024-02-18T13:34:00.001+00:002024-02-18T13:34:39.376+00:00Haikai do Viandante (435)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmvl7pYYFBH7kSaH5DaJ5XzCR9XL-XaZuC1pHHL4lQIXKn-D897UZQuAwZaaqYcSUO8obApYnR8xFq0u2qsg3Vtm4FrNOR6whNyNq-UVUdEY7TcVW74Rr_ZDGTT5ePMhNZt7t0-AUOBsbHoeBAflkX_8w3QushGOFRgB4IGlh4aM2fAbLQRxVcgSNa9FYe" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="571" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmvl7pYYFBH7kSaH5DaJ5XzCR9XL-XaZuC1pHHL4lQIXKn-D897UZQuAwZaaqYcSUO8obApYnR8xFq0u2qsg3Vtm4FrNOR6whNyNq-UVUdEY7TcVW74Rr_ZDGTT5ePMhNZt7t0-AUOBsbHoeBAflkX_8w3QushGOFRgB4IGlh4aM2fAbLQRxVcgSNa9FYe=s16000" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">José Dominguez Alvarez, <i>Paisagem de Montanha </i>(<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/paisagem-de-montanha-154580/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000;"> <i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sombras nos caminhos</span></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">são símbolos na montanha.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sangue de Outono.</span><br /></span></i><br /></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-31785660554504242862024-02-16T18:04:00.000+00:002024-02-16T18:04:10.936+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (8)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwBoO3__t9lCryJKH_ffRJllcYvccGIR0mm1qgnkH5oyYV6bTDIDWhqIWUsVUNBftA5NsI3HkwGW8PycExkx8q2wFiTa2WZPT4kuiLvvv_qAELlxW-Sct5b73lBdWpmlgcdXNRsjoMML-T9NY2T8J2Z03kGFb8ZnNg7jFbJW44DDftR5HOY1DS32wz73Yi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="800" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwBoO3__t9lCryJKH_ffRJllcYvccGIR0mm1qgnkH5oyYV6bTDIDWhqIWUsVUNBftA5NsI3HkwGW8PycExkx8q2wFiTa2WZPT4kuiLvvv_qAELlxW-Sct5b73lBdWpmlgcdXNRsjoMML-T9NY2T8J2Z03kGFb8ZnNg7jFbJW44DDftR5HOY1DS32wz73Yi=w640-h492" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rockwell Kent, <i>Admiralty Inlet</i>, 1922</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A camisa
desgastada de Invernos<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">é um trapo
enrolado nas mãos,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">é o corpo
pelo tempo rasgado,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">uma mancha
que declina sem luz.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Revestido de
matéria efémera,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">o espírito
balança ao relento.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Vai e vem,
preso ao fulgor do que passa,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">tão perdido
no delíquio dos dias.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Atormentam-me
as sombras esquivas<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">declinadas
pela luz deste Inverno,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">a camisa
corrompida do corpo.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Se o sol resplandece
nas montanhas,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">o espírito
encontra o caminho<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">para a casa
que ao longe o espera. </span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="text-align: center;">
</p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Fevereiro de 2024</span> </div><br /><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-24900548857145045322024-02-14T16:17:00.001+00:002024-02-14T22:50:29.460+00:00No limiar (15)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggbTxQins3L3QP-PrNn0Psqz-dDKmouFqCc_njEbMUtd8K6ygRHSWZ-tWK6xEFAObdM_mlm0cAUKYaRt2e1xhi8JN-aysIO1HiawRXVuqYft4_yY8WaySo6XnWG-pVKwHqiNVOvLlVDN8rDgG6oBVklyF-9z6UuPnqTdMaO4HpwvxRlBayR8qMeMMH2F2N" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="425" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggbTxQins3L3QP-PrNn0Psqz-dDKmouFqCc_njEbMUtd8K6ygRHSWZ-tWK6xEFAObdM_mlm0cAUKYaRt2e1xhi8JN-aysIO1HiawRXVuqYft4_yY8WaySo6XnWG-pVKwHqiNVOvLlVDN8rDgG6oBVklyF-9z6UuPnqTdMaO4HpwvxRlBayR8qMeMMH2F2N=w640-h528" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Carlos Carneiro, sem título, 1970 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/stitulo-148646/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">A realidade não é um presença constante, dela está ausente a placidez das coisas eternas. É uma aproximação lenta, um vir de longe, atravessando as areias dos desertos, as águas escuras e inóspitas dos oceanos, as florestas cerradas no dorso das montanhas. Aproxima-se como uma sombra, porque é morosa a procissão que tem de percorrer a partir do nada, elaborando-se em esboços sem fim, ganhando consistência no lusco-fusco dos dias, até que atravessa o limiar do mundo e encontra a carne que lhe cobre o corpo e nos faz exclamar <i>eis a realidade viva.</i></span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-31845763335913809392024-02-12T14:32:00.000+00:002024-02-12T14:32:03.855+00:00A memória do ar (25)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxr1MpKcazSGRCirwJOdp1fvDnlUdpjbPsz2bh_fRqJZp21dduHBbG6MxXaH6-Rgzf8LQgIkTNvHf4lGLxBi6dqsfrGA2kEZ7UGVz6EjJYf4Ms24s4VfuJNVrNKPu-ajIcQWI0fxG1CDmeENIk93cjfLyIK_KslRYkmD1kJAAdPTuK1Eor8n9aaka1D13X" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="370" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxr1MpKcazSGRCirwJOdp1fvDnlUdpjbPsz2bh_fRqJZp21dduHBbG6MxXaH6-Rgzf8LQgIkTNvHf4lGLxBi6dqsfrGA2kEZ7UGVz6EjJYf4Ms24s4VfuJNVrNKPu-ajIcQWI0fxG1CDmeENIk93cjfLyIK_KslRYkmD1kJAAdPTuK1Eor8n9aaka1D13X=w308-h400" width="385" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sérvulo Esmeraldo, <i>Vibrations</i>, 1963 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/vibrations-141336/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">O ar divide-se em camadas. Se o vento o anima, então cada uma começa a vibrar e ondas sonoras propagam-se sobre a Terra, umas violentas, outras dóceis, outras ainda saturadas de harmonia e equilíbrio. Os homens pensam então escutar a música das esferas celestes, mas é apenas uma canção da Terra vinda da púrpura ébria da atmosfera.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-3321611202874078702024-02-10T13:07:00.001+00:002024-02-10T13:07:09.410+00:00O sal do silêncio (110)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLKMPnc5N6ghcg5P3LzHMtk6jeCwpZccOOsq3qCHC_RCXJmjuC7TsarCWbbBRyxj0ggAsqOLOONV4lXR_uT27bVMufYWgx4UATTX5hBuh8l8x0hGkP1yzEqV-7DfmSKeje7xse5gp3LI475Xq_ltl3faalwDECMUkIyjUd6Rb-ujTAVs40me0xlpkNDEIh" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLKMPnc5N6ghcg5P3LzHMtk6jeCwpZccOOsq3qCHC_RCXJmjuC7TsarCWbbBRyxj0ggAsqOLOONV4lXR_uT27bVMufYWgx4UATTX5hBuh8l8x0hGkP1yzEqV-7DfmSKeje7xse5gp3LI475Xq_ltl3faalwDECMUkIyjUd6Rb-ujTAVs40me0xlpkNDEIh=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Júlio Pomar, <i>Campinos</i>, 1963</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Um ruído irrompe na eterna paz da lezíria. Cavalos e toiros são um traço na paisagem, a marca de um instante que se manifesta para logo desaparecer no sal da quietude ou no silêncio onde o tempo se devora a si mesmo, cansado da viagem.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-51260516741886586712024-02-08T15:05:00.001+00:002024-02-08T15:05:09.812+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (7)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVP-UeFKguVoFucqJJRICbd2JbUBpZTwaJueVqk0aioT8AujMMRYV38dunzUbanCjeXtkqm1KAthfw6vRb-VVlkOlIGxfX4L8YWSJjIhSWlLSVNqea3nOvSBwYxUVGzsrt1heZeDDQ8wUd8YJNTYJ2dAjwdvrxkScLf_oouC0PBDAX8t0Ap2d-KzS4g2AH" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="598" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVP-UeFKguVoFucqJJRICbd2JbUBpZTwaJueVqk0aioT8AujMMRYV38dunzUbanCjeXtkqm1KAthfw6vRb-VVlkOlIGxfX4L8YWSJjIhSWlLSVNqea3nOvSBwYxUVGzsrt1heZeDDQ8wUd8YJNTYJ2dAjwdvrxkScLf_oouC0PBDAX8t0Ap2d-KzS4g2AH=w298-h400" width="372,5" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Camille Pissarro, <i>Morning, Sunshine Effect Winter</i>, 1895</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Abandono as
coisas deste jardim,</span></i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">folhas
mortas dum Inverno sem luz.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Ergo ágil a
candeia do silêncio<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">sobre a
noite rasurada do mundo.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Oiço passos
na morada do homem.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Oiço
cânticos no escuro das ruas.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Um segredo
no passar de quem parte.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Um enigma
desenhado nas vozes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A substância
da viagem cintila<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">no jardim da
noite húmida e cândida,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">no altar
onde o Inverno se entrega.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Ó as vozes
de quem parte sem rumo.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Ó os passos
de quem canta calado.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Nem
segredos, nem enigmas. Silêncio.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Fevereiro
de 2024</p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-17073906171615354422024-02-06T14:52:00.003+00:002024-02-06T14:52:49.978+00:00Meditação breve (193) Paisagem<p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaH6fCn7BpswdohNvS36lEOeY33EHDMKJDFLAoeM8gcrLpN9hYY3KglFCQZ-M3-dGiGdMpuEF51tmNwpGcwkWZK4-OkMBFf9n--d4pmQWFKyWajxysAeo2D78kcMpHczF_o_dTw29DGCceG6qEtpRk-HqVyqHXRj57l4qKjcls251vu0guPfFOFJ_eeZjZ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="640" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaH6fCn7BpswdohNvS36lEOeY33EHDMKJDFLAoeM8gcrLpN9hYY3KglFCQZ-M3-dGiGdMpuEF51tmNwpGcwkWZK4-OkMBFf9n--d4pmQWFKyWajxysAeo2D78kcMpHczF_o_dTw29DGCceG6qEtpRk-HqVyqHXRj57l4qKjcls251vu0guPfFOFJ_eeZjZ=w640-h486" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">João Navarro Hogan, <i>Paisagem</i>, 1939 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/paisagem-139214/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Quando se ouve a palavra paisagem, um obscuro instinto leva-nos a imaginar espaços abertos e luminosos, onde a vida se desenrola num exercício de equilíbrio a que chamamos harmonia. Nesse hábito, esconde-se o desejo de que a vida seja assim, luminosa e aberta como bela paisagem campestre, mesmo que a luz, por intensa, oculte a obscuridade que ali habita. </span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-53983481255878330222024-02-04T12:20:00.002+00:002024-02-06T01:23:02.212+00:00Geometrias de fogo (25)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiz08BLk4vH3XE26rVJvoU_1KmEJXyUG8XJ20Y9nMNO5Lh2N_U3I_6fbGkrP8ZD9YRP1l69RpVP4S0LodW-HE890akQFSTgo2iSVsHKYyMENf2sRvoT6r-wge4PL-2lBZy3AZ17OCffAZrTNEtsvqZB-n2ckQ09GyBzHOk8WS6lR_zVgN1SFxT8LTiGt7YK" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="800" height="515" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiz08BLk4vH3XE26rVJvoU_1KmEJXyUG8XJ20Y9nMNO5Lh2N_U3I_6fbGkrP8ZD9YRP1l69RpVP4S0LodW-HE890akQFSTgo2iSVsHKYyMENf2sRvoT6r-wge4PL-2lBZy3AZ17OCffAZrTNEtsvqZB-n2ckQ09GyBzHOk8WS6lR_zVgN1SFxT8LTiGt7YK=w640-h515" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Vincent Van Gogh, <i>Olive Trees with Yellow Sky and Sun, </i>1889</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">O sol envia dardos de fogo e a terra abre-se para que eles a penetrem com a sua ardência fulgurante. É um fogo cintilante que aquece os mundo subterrâneos, crepita no silêncio das noites, toca as raízes húmidas das oliveiras, sobe-lhes pelos troncos e ramos até que nos lagares os frutos se metamorfoseiam num incêndio líquido, belo como uma promessa há muito feita e agora realizada.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-85497918548128675742024-02-02T10:10:00.002+00:002024-02-02T10:10:31.891+00:00Haikai do Viandante (434)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZt-vYI0-PgJStusOW6FhOGAeVEpgeTkP69Em4dsfFMPsMfpW_S-nxa23L6tThkqFiSac70xw-Oj57Y5dUvTFaPz-YE5XMAiOY8AlFXjx5jwx85eXwwrlqClNc075AAj4p1JPWRODATmdf1Ry-qTFoZUVOgCrVnO7gs2c_YAscTZjPZeH5jcFcC1Yqdt9k" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="800" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZt-vYI0-PgJStusOW6FhOGAeVEpgeTkP69Em4dsfFMPsMfpW_S-nxa23L6tThkqFiSac70xw-Oj57Y5dUvTFaPz-YE5XMAiOY8AlFXjx5jwx85eXwwrlqClNc075AAj4p1JPWRODATmdf1Ry-qTFoZUVOgCrVnO7gs2c_YAscTZjPZeH5jcFcC1Yqdt9k=w640-h502" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Francis Picabia, <i>Amanhecer na bruma, Montiguy</i>, 1905</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000;"> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>O dia revela-se</i></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>nas árvores matinais.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>Bramidos e brumas.</i></span><br /></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-9983613683333843042024-01-31T12:03:00.006+00:002024-01-31T12:03:51.113+00:00Sonetos de Inverno (6)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOerSRXz52LJVs8EPGHEdXHA8tMze75qRlXcZDTBcd79muKjhtoP-bW7vvBQSiwgs4EXWdOqV5dErJ6Gzuae0309GEBfqve1GHdF2zRFHO1YuvYsln16Q5fJs2VwHXJcyTba2gLU3tMGMnywOJN2U4B73EF75Jiin3JCDxzwqHMSalAyRN2kqCt30xyyfw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="800" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOerSRXz52LJVs8EPGHEdXHA8tMze75qRlXcZDTBcd79muKjhtoP-bW7vvBQSiwgs4EXWdOqV5dErJ6Gzuae0309GEBfqve1GHdF2zRFHO1YuvYsln16Q5fJs2VwHXJcyTba2gLU3tMGMnywOJN2U4B73EF75Jiin3JCDxzwqHMSalAyRN2kqCt30xyyfw=w640-h462" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Philip Guston, <i>Winter, </i>1963</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> <i style="text-align: justify;">A verdade do
Inverno esconde-se</i></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">na floresta
onde as pétalas caem<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">sobre o chão
negro dos dias passados,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">sobre o
leito onde dorme o futuro.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">As sibilas
dançam, cantam os hinos <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">macerados pelas
chuvas arcaicas.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Os segredos
de outrora desvelam-se<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">no rumor da
boca fria dos profetas.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Natureza, a
verdade recobre<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">as tuas
horas com um manto de pétalas<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">renascidas
no desvão da floresta.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">O silêncio,
um presságio arcaico<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">dança imóvel
no segredo da noite.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Uma rosa de
sal sangra nos céus.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Janeiro
de 2024<o:p></o:p></p><p style="text-align: center;">
<br /></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7431845073309145079.post-12530473430009240732024-01-29T11:48:00.003+00:002024-01-29T11:48:14.515+00:00A sombra da água (25)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq81a_fm-t8jAXE_uocKr21i92cr9Q0VXfLiBDdSEWRP0pBVCWaqMMBZZmIIpiaIfPJ9Bv4Kv-HQs9KdI0kgiseFpUqqY4hxlTfHvpAwfPUYCvyRrRI3EU5kynBPIELnNHXK_NXJ8P_2Z_u3iPSoJG_TSfDHzJAZEqb9mkWpBkHiSffLDoHtEBJUlm-hrV" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="640" height="526" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq81a_fm-t8jAXE_uocKr21i92cr9Q0VXfLiBDdSEWRP0pBVCWaqMMBZZmIIpiaIfPJ9Bv4Kv-HQs9KdI0kgiseFpUqqY4hxlTfHvpAwfPUYCvyRrRI3EU5kynBPIELnNHXK_NXJ8P_2Z_u3iPSoJG_TSfDHzJAZEqb9mkWpBkHiSffLDoHtEBJUlm-hrV=w640-h526" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ricardo da Cruz-Filipe, <i>Mar n.º 1</i>, 1983 (<a href="https://gulbenkian.pt/cam/works_cam/mar-no-1-154736/">Gulbenkian</a>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 195%;">Sento-me a ver o mar. Oiço o cântico das ondas, prescruto-lhes o ritmo, escando, no silêncio da praia, cada verso que traz e leva, como uma sombra de seda, a água salgada. Em transe, observo o oceano desdobrando-se, tomado pela inquietação que se abre no ventre da manhã rasgada pelos dardos do Sol.</span></span></div><p></p>Homo Viatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11346028008626162132noreply@blogger.com0