quarta-feira, agosto 06, 2008

Verão: Iogurte lírico 1

Mother, Summer, I

My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront:I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

Philip Larkin

segunda-feira, agosto 04, 2008

White Winter Hymnal from Grandchildren on Vimeo.
All hail the men in black (and the girl too, actually...)

(quero lá saber de Beijing, pá. Nunca mais começa a bola)
Sobre o Verão: era exactamente isto que eu ia dizer, juro.

«Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.»

- Robert Browning