William Blake: Auguries Of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

Luz Cristal

Analisar a vida implica estar fora dela, mas eu só existo nela, sendo-a, por isso, para analisá-la teria de morrer, e morrendo deixaria de haver o que analisar. Imitá-la, é só o que me é concedido fazer a partir dela (para além de a viver como ela é): escrevê-la, aqui... Como esta foto, que apenas pode imitar o Real.

(Fenómeno habitual no Ártico e Antártico, provocado pelos cristais de gelo quando o Sol surge no horizonte.)

O que sou é a mãe, o que sei é meu filho

O Homem só existe, verdadeiramente, por se saber Homem, porém, quando chega a adulto, tende a inverter-se. Em vez de ser o que se sabe Homem, passa a ser o saber que tem de si, esquece-se que é o ser que é o saber, não é o saber que é o ser. O saber toma o lugar do ser, o filho toma o lugar da Mãe.

Eu sou o que sei, mas o que sei, por si, não me é. Ser é a Mãe, que está sempre presente, saber é o filho, que nasce constantemente, e que logo deixa de ser a Mãe assim que o faz. O ser humano apega-se ao filho como se ele continuasse a ser a Mãe, mas ele separa-se dela logo que aparece. A separação entre eles não indica que o filho não fosse verdadeiro, é apenas uma inevitabilidade, tendo em conta a natureza da sua relação.

O cérebro representa o ser embrião do nosso ser, dele nascem os nossos filhos-conhecimentos, somo-los todos, mas como todos eles estão condicionados ao tempo, nenhum deles preenche o nosso ser inteiro, eterno. O filho que nos poderá preencher todo o ser, terá de nascer da síntese de todos eles, de unir tudo, de nascer do sentimento de fusão do amor infinito, do saber que se sabe sem ser preciso saber, porque deixou de ser apenas um saber temporário do ser, tornou-se no próprio ser, na Mãe. O verdadeiro saber que a Mãe-Ser pode ter de si é dado pelo filho de Corpo Real, nascido do seu Cérebro Real: o Útero.

- Mas como? Como sabes?
- Não sei... mas também não nasci por saber-me. Sou, eu própria, o que digo, o que nasce de minha boca, pelo que também não posso sabê-lo.

A Saudade, a Canção de Amor e a luz de Deus segundo Nick Cave

"We all experience within us what the Portuguese call saudade, which translates as an inexplicable longing, an unnamed and enigmatic yearning of the soul, and it is this feeling that lives in the realms of imagination and inspiration and is the breeding ground for the sad song, for the Love Song. Saudade, or longing, is the desire to be transported from darkness into light. To be touched by the hand of that which is not of this world. The Love Song is the light of God, deep down, blasting up through our wounds" - Nick Cave, in The Secret Life of the Love Song. The Flesh Made Word. Two Lectures by Nick Cave (CD).