sentado no maple grande, vejo chegar o jovem thomas alan com um livro debaixo do braço. não resisto a interrogá-lo sobre esta polémica da poesia ser dita ou lida ou lá o que é ou vier a ser. ainda em pé, tira um cigarro do maço, coça a cabeça e senta-te pausadamente. depois diz-me: sabes, não gosto de dizer poemas, os meus são sempre cantados, porque invariavelmente acabam por ser as letras das minhas canções. mas vou dizer-te um, do bukowski. abre o livro, lê-me o poema e termina: that's a beauty, here...
the laughing heart
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous,
the gods wait to delight
in you.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous,
the gods wait to delight
in you.
charles bukowski