Verão

Deve estar bonito não, o dia lá fora.
Deve estar bacana não, ver as crianças no jardim, e ver também o som dos pássaros e ouvir os sorrisos doces e as milhares de sinestesias permitidas num dia de verão.
No verão se permite tudo, até mesmo pernilongos. Por que foram criados os pernilongos, me pergunto, sobretudo quando um zumbe minha orelha por toda a noite e desperta em mim sentimentos abissalmente assassinos, ah, que lastimável não é, sentir raiva dos pernilongos.
Mais ainda por que dorme-se de lençol, um meio lençol talvez, jogado sobre partes clandestinas do corpo aqui e ali escondidas pelo pano, as outras numa liberdade avassaladora estiradas sobre a cama.
Ah, o verão. Ah, o bafo quente no rosto ao meio dia, as ruas turvas de chuvas rápidas e curvas em ondas quentes que se despregam do asfalto.

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