sábado, 22 de junho de 2013

Manhã de Inverno


                                                  " Coroada de névoas ,
                                                      surge a aurora
                                                     Por detrás das
                                                          montanhas do oriente ;
                                                     Vê -se um resto de
                                                            sono e de preguiça ,
                                                     Nos olhos da
                                                          fantástica indolente .

                                                 
                                                     Névoas enchem
                                                     de um lado e de
                                                      outro os morros
                                                     Tristes como
                                                      sinceras sepulturas ,
                                                        Essas que têm por
                                                         simples ornamento
                                                          Puras capelas ,
                                                              lágrimas mais puras .
                                                     A custo rompe o sol ;
                                                      a custo invade
                                                     O espaço todo branco ;
                                                    e a luz brilhante
                                                     Fulge através do
                                                    espesso nevoeiro ,
                                                    Como através de um
                                                      véu fulge o diamante .
                                                               Vento frio ,
                                                                  mas brando ,
                                                                agita as folhas
                                                                Das laranjeiras úmidas
                                                            da chuva ;
                                                                 Erma de flores ,
                                                                curva a planta o colo ,
                                                                 E o chão recebe
                                                                o pranto da viúva.

                                                               
                                                                 Gelo não cobre o
                                                                        dorso das montanhas ,
                                                                       Nem enche as folhas
                                                                       trêmulas a neve ;
                                                                   Galhardo moço ,
                                                                      o inverno deste clima 
                                                                   Na verde palma
                                                                          a sua história escreve . 
                                                             
                                                                    Pouco a pouco ,
                                                                     dissipam -se no espaço
                                                                As névoas da manhã ;
                                                              já pelos montes
                                                             Vão subindo as que
                                                                   encheram todo o vale ;
                                                              Já se vão descobrindo
                                                            os horizontes .

                                                                 Sobe de todo o pano ;
                                                          eis aparece
                                                              Da natureza o esplêndido
                                                            cenário ;
                                                       Tudo ali preparou co'os
                                                            sábios olhos
                                                       A suprema ciência
                                                        do empresário .

                                                      
                                                         Canta a orquestra
                                                          dos pássaros no mato
                                                              A sinfonia alpestre ,
                                                   - a voz serena
                                                        Acordo os ecos
                                                           tímidos do vale ;
                                                     E a divina comédia
                                                           invade a cena . "

                                                            [ Machado de Assis , in 'Falenas ']

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