Palavras

Por Rosimeire Soares

                                                                        A casa, o silêncio
                                                                        É sono
                                                                        É noite que descansa
                                                                        A alma pueril
                                                                        Há chuva
                                                                        Na janela
                                                                        Nos meus olhos
                                                                        Há dor
                                                                        Na ponta do lápis
                                                                        Na mente
                                                                        No coração
                                                                        A fome anuncia
                                                                        Existem vontades
                                                                        Cobranças
                                                                        Sem assunto
                                                                        Sem ânimo
                                                                        Quero só manifestar
                                                                        E o norte?
                                                                        Nem o sul
                                                                        Nem o centro
                                                                        Não há coerência
                                                                        Só há riscos
                                                                        Palavras
                                                                        Palavras
                                                                        A caneta desliza
                                                                        Esculpe letras
                                                                        Sem nexo
                                                                        Sem emoção
                                                                        Os versos feitos
                                                                        Nenhuma reflexão.