Beneath the flat and paper sky



The sun, a demon's eye,



Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;



All wand'ring sounds that pass



Seemed out of tune, as if the light



Were fiddle-strings pulled tight.



The market-square with spire and bell



Clanged out the hour in Hell;



The busy chatter of the heat



Shrilled like a parakeet;



And shuddering at the noonday light



The dust lay dead and white



As powder on a mummy's face,



Or fawned with simian grace



Round booths with many a hard bright toy



And wooden brittle joy:



The cap and bells of Time the Clown



That, jangling, whistled down



Young cherubs hidden in the guise



Of every bird that flies;



And star-bright masks for youth to wear,



Lest any dream that fare



-Bright pilgrim-past our ken, should see



Hints of Reality.



Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,



Tall trees like rattles lean,



And jangle sharp and dissily;



But when night falls they sign



Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in,



His face more white than sin,



Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare



Each cherry, plum, and pear.



Then underneath the veiled eyes



Of houses, darkness lies--



Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer



They cleave the sly dumb air.



Blind are those houses, paper-thin



Old shadows hid therein,



With sly and crazy movements creep



Like marionettes, and weep.



Tall windows show Infinity;



And, hard reality,



The candles weep and pry and dance



Like lives mocked at by Chance.



The rooms are vast as Sleep within;



When once I ventured in,



Chill Silence, like a surging sea,



Slowly enveloped me.

O corvo hesita, antevê o momento, e observando-me cruzado, existindo enquanto torçe o crânio em ângulos inimagináveis, pensando o impensável no interior primário do seu conceito de medo, dá ar ao fosfato da ráquis - trop chic. A água atrás cintila, mas macilenta e baça, como a patine dos serviços de prata que abundam nos antiquários, ali. Apesar do animal não perceber os preços pedidos,cifras insondáveis, gosta de os ver. Escuro, num ajeitar brusco de asas, desliza pelo ar como uma escala inflamada de clarinete, e faz um M minúsculo torcendo as ossadas do esterno, em tensão directa com forças gratitacionais. À esquerda, rasga uma pena na lombada do prédio, capa de Vélin, mas que importa (?). A Boulevard caprichosa está no fim desta rua cuspida, cinza e bege, de pão e carbono.

As saudades de um mundo de cor, as saudades do cheiro frutado da vergonha nos pêssegos. Dos pássaros que não devem.
O meu coração está em Lisboa, a dedilhar a copa do Jacarandá, na tua mão.