“ode ao onanista”

este esguicho branco-pardo
de tantas tardes de sono
quando as onças dormiam:
jorrar convicto, lacrimoso.

esta gota encorpada
que de nós escorre
e também é bílis:
massa do infinito,
cheiro nauseabundo,
gota pai, gota mãe,
gota imperdoável.

de onde viemos tão tolos,
gota mole, insubstancial?
gota que, quando esgota,
nos torna fósseis de nós.

estribilho transparente
- gota do não me apague.

enquanto de mim esguichares
sem saber se és vida ou vício
escutarei o silêncio cálido
da tua motivação narcísea.

Leo Marona.

Sylvia Plath

Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Enviado por João.