mato

Por Ana Paula Perissé

Imagem: Ana Paula Perissé

 

 

                                          há um gesto
                                          que desafoga
                                          o rasgo do frio
                                          e me liberta
                                          em pedacinhos
                                          para o abismo
                                          e o vazio

 

 

                                          voo
                                          sem me deixar
                                          a lembrança de uma porta
                                          que me esconde
                                          o resto de mim
                                          ainda
                                          em cárcere

 

 

                                          (o sonho ainda tem
                                          grades)

 

 

                                          e quando sinto a serra
                                          teu cheiro e neblina
                                          pouco posso mudar
                                          o muro
                                          de vida
                                          que me dilacera
                                          ao horizonte
                                          e que não me deixa
                                          correr

 

 

                                          rasguem-me
                                          mas deixem-me
                                          que corra
                                          em direcçção
                                          ao mato
                                          que me acende
                                          TODA
                                          para os mundos
                                          que se escondem
                                          de mim

 

 

                                          sentir as folhas soltas
                                          ao vento
                                          de um crepúsculo
                                          rosa
                                          que me rasga de saudade
                                          até que exausta
                                          não faz mais sentido
                                          voar

 

 

                                          labiríntica
                                          a toada que me impõe
                                          sem ritmo
                                          a vida
                                          que se descolore

 

 

                                          sem pulso.