Mira

Por Fabio Ramos

                                                                      No banco da praça,

                                                                      pombos em volta

                                                                      do senhor encurvado.

                                                                      Os transeuntes

                                                                      aceleram o passo

                                                                      sem vislumbrar a cena:

                                                                      migalhas de pão atiradas

                                                                      aos ratos com asas.

                                                                      O bando multiplica-se.

                                                                      A sujeira e as doenças

                                                                      também.

                                                                      Deixe estar.

                                                                      Nenhuma das aves

                                                                      com tendência para engordar

                                                                      passará incólume

                                                                      à mira do meu

                                                                      estilingue.

                                                                      E na tarefa

                                                                      de exterminar a praga,

                                                                      arrumei uma importante aliada:

                                                                      a língua da Jussara.

                                                                      Um elogio seu

                                                                      às flores do jardim

                                                                      é suficiente

                                                                      para murchar

                                                                      as rosas admiradas.

                                                                      Quando enfim

                                                                      direcionou
                                                                      os comentários

                                                                      às criaturas em revoada

                                                                      aconteceu o que

                                                                      eu previra:

                                                                      choveu pombo morto

                                                                      nos quintais da vila.