Anactoria
"A minha vida torna-se amarga com o teu amor; os teus olhos
Cegam-me, as tuas tranças queimam-me, os teus suspiros profundos
Dividem a minha carne e o meu espírito com um débil som,
E o meu sangue fortalece-se, e as minhas veias transbordam.
Peço-te que não suspires, não fales, não respires;
Deixa que a vida se reduza a cinzas e sonha que não é a morte.
Queria que o mar nos tivesse escondido, o fogo
(Terás tu medo disso e não receias o meu desejo?)
Quebrou os ossos que branqueiam, a carne que se fende,
E deixa que as nossas cinzas joeiradas caiam como folhas.
Sinto o teu sangue contra o meu; a minha dor
Atormenta-te, e os lábios esmagam os lábios, a veia dilacera a veia.
Que o fruto seja esmagado sobre o fruto, e a flor sobre a flor,
Que o seio desperte o seio e ambos ardam uma hora.
Porque hás-de tu seguir um amor sem importância? É o teu
Demasiado fraco para sustentar estas minhas mãos e estes meus lábios?
[...]"
- A. C. Swinburne, Poemas, Lisboa, Relógio d'Água, 2006, p.37
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Sabem quem foi Swinburne?
Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death.
And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the labouring earth;
And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and of birth;
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love
With life before and after
And death beneath and above,
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span
With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
From the winds of the north and the south
They gathered as unto strife;
They breathed upon his mouth,
They filled his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,
A time for labour and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways,
And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,
And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.
Second Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Caro Casto Severo,
A minha casta severidade me descansa de qualquer transbordar do sangue nesse vaso. Desse fogo a minha severa castidade me obriga a não beber. Cinzas que ardem póstumas na pira dos meus castos pensamentos...
Um abraço do Obscuro
Obsekuru ma non Sekuru!
Estranhos pudores...
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