Psalm

Oh, the leaky boundaries of man-made states! 

How many clouds float over them with impunity;

how much desert sand shifts from one land to another;

how many mountain pebbles tumble onto foreign soil

in provocative hops!

Need I mention every single bird that flies in the face of frontiers

or alights on the roadblock at the border?

A humble robin - still, its tail resides abroad

while its beak stays home. If that weren't enough, it won't stop bobbing!

Among innumerable insects, I'll single out only the ant

between the border guard's left and right boots

blithely ignoring the questions "Where from?" and "Where to?" 

Oh, to register in detail, at a glance, the chaos

prevailing on every continent!

Isn't that a privet on the far bank

smuggling its hundred-thousandth leaf across the river?

And who but the octopus, with impudent long arms,

would disrupt the sacred bounds of territorial waters?

And how can we talk of order overall?

when the very placement of the stars

leaves us doubting just what shines for whom?

Not to speak of the fog's reprehensible drifting!

And dust blowing all over the steppes

as if they hadn't been partitioned!

And the voices coasting on obliging airwaves,

that conspiratorial squeaking, those indecipherable mutters!

Only what is human can truly be foreign.

The rest is mixed vegetation, subversive moles, and wind. 

Wisława Szymborska

in, "Map: Collected and Last Poems"

The Mental Prison

 

I’m different from my peers,

I don’t think the same way,

When they run, I walk,

When they’re quiet, I talk,

And I question why I do it every day.

I was not a sad child,

I was just a bit demure,

People asked, “Is he sad?”

Which always made me mad,

And I don’t want to be asked any more.

I don’t care if I’m accepted,

Like so many kids do,

But since one cannot be changed,

He who is self-estranged,

Then what must I get through?

Sometimes I feel like I’m falling,

a fear I dread and dread,

I feel like I’m alone,

In a place dark and unknown,

But I know it’s all in my head.

Dumb, ugly, overweight,

I feel weighed down by these names,

These thoughts snake all around

and they hold me to the ground.

I am stricken by these pains.

Yet deep within my body,

lodged somewhere in my head,

Is a thought so foul,

It would make anyone howl,

It is my darkest fear: dread.

It keeps me from expressing

how I really feel,

And no matter what I try,

It only makes me cry,

And I’m trapped, unable to heal.

And like a wound untreated,

I fester like a sore,

And sore I am,

For with every exam,

I want the pain to stop more and more.

But what good would come from ending it all?

To seal my wounds with eternal sleep?

Though your tears may pass,

as you thus succumb to the grass,

It’s now your parents’ turn to weep.

A quick short simple life,

A cursory glance at what may be,

But you want no more,

As life is a chore,

So like an autumn leaf, you lie below a tree.

And this is what fear can do,

It’s the most vile of its kind,

It can put a frog in your throat,

and a crocodile in the moat,

around the walls that seal off your mind.

But what is most important,

Is not if you fit in,

It’s that even in the dark,

there’s is always a spark,

for those that want to begin, not give in.

Begin what you ask?

Begin to ease the pains,

That restrain you so,

And one day you’ll know,

The way to sever your chains.

But there is a silver lining,

To every sad tale,

I’ve struggled a lot,

And internally fought,

So that my sanity will not fail.

For I like this life,

And do not wish it to end,

I will come to terms with my fears,

And after many, many years,

I will call my fears my friends

Henry Lynch

Não viver é o que mais cansa

 

Life Of Pix via Pexels

 

Não é o viver que me cansa. 

É o não haver morto 

que, em mim, não ressuscite. 

De tal modo 

que não encontro morte que seja minha. 

Alheio e distante 

se tornou o fim que trago em mim. 

Longínqua a fonte 

onde bebi a luz até ser pranto. 

O meu sonho 

vai lavrando noites 

e não há fundura na terra 

que receba o meu sono. 

A casa 

segue a vocação da asa. 

E eu, 

para ser feliz,

esqueço-me que sou raiz. 

Mia Couto

Sem Fim

 

Jason Peterson

Sempre e sem fim a vida... 

tão pesada de incerteza 

tão plena de impossíveis 

mas a tamanha altura erguida! 

Um invisível suporte

- foi-se-lhe o fio e o norte! -

sem fim aos céus sem nome 

projecta o sonho incansável 

dum reviver sem retrocesso 

dum atingir sempre passando. 

Plenitude atingida 

quer dizer nova largada 

sempre e sem fim rediviva 

a chama que não se apaga

- que a vida não tem sentido 

se dum momento parado 

se faz água estagnada 

charco em que se adormeça 

das canseiras do caminho. 

Fonte sem par 

nuvem sem forma 

a força que não se extingue 

alevanta o seu pendão 

de combate sem naufrágio

- que quanto mais as balas dão 

as setas vão a morte voa 

mais clara a nota soa 

do clamor de vitória! 

Que não há vida sem mortes 

avanço sem retrocesso 

montanha sem precipícios! 

E quanto mais sobe a vida 

na projecção dum destino 

envolto em bruma de signos 

de astrais irreais desígnios 

maior a queda se ousa 

e mais se ganha a vitória 

do quase certo de perdê-la. 

Sonhos de mares de procela 

sem bússola nem equipagem 

sem velas e sem navio! 

Mares da angústia vencida 

calcada por um desígnio 

de não parar sequer no fim! 

E lá ao longe na bruma 

num longe que sempre e sem fim 

renasce sempre mais longe 

quando vai ser atingido 

envolto em voos de chamas 

o cume sem onde espera. 

Lá 

onde sem fio 

onde sem norte 

o rumo se tece e manda.

Adolfo Casais Monteiro