Sonhos

"The Post War Dream"

tell me true tell me why was Jesus crucified

is it for this that daddy died?

was it for you? was it me?

did i watch too much t.v.?

is that a hint of accusation in your eyes?

if it wasn't for the nips

being so good at building ships

the yards would still be open on the clyde

and it can't be much fun for them

beneath the rising sun

with all their kids committing suicide

what have we done maggie what have we done

what have we done to england

should we shout should we scream

"what happened to the post war dream?"

oh maggie maggie what have we done?

Roger Waters

Copyright: Roger Waters Music Overseas Ltd., 

Artemis Muziekuitgeverij B.V.

«Carreirismo»

Após ter surripiado por três vezes a compota da despensa, seu pai adomestou-o.

Depois de ter roubado a caixa do senhor Esteves da mercearia da esquina, seu pai pô-lo na rua.

Voltou passados vinte e dois anos, com chofér fardado.

Era director Geral das Polícias. Seu pai teve o enfarte.

   

  

Mário-Henrique Leiria, in

"Contos do Gin-Tonic"

Wow! I'm sick of doubt

Live in the light of certain South

Cruel bindings

The servants have the power

Dog, men and their mean women

Pulling poor blankets over our sailors

I'm sick of dour faces

Staring at me from the T.V. tower

I want roses in my garden bower, dig

Royal babies, rubies must now replace

Aborted strangers in the mud

These mutants, blood-meal

For the plant that's plowed

They are waiting to take us into

The severed garden

Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful

Comes death on a strange hour

Unannounced, unplanned for

Like a scaring over-friendly guest

You've brought to bed

Death makes angels of us all

And gives us wings

Where we had shoulders

Smooth as raven's claws

No more money, no more fancy dress

This other kingdom seems by far the best

Until it's other jaw reveals incest

And loose obedience to a vegetable law

I will not go

Prefer a feast of friends

To the giant family

Jim Morrison

(1943-1971)

Cor

               Não hei-de morrer sem saber

               qual a cor da liberdade.

               Eu não posso senão ser

               desta terra em que nasci.

               Embora ao mundo pertença

               e sempre a verdade vença,

               qual será ser livre aqui,

               não hei-de morrer sem saber.

               Trocaram tudo em maldade,

               é quase um crime viver.

               Mas, embora escondam tudo

               e me queiram cego e mudo,

               não hei-de morrer sem saber

               qual a cor da liberdade.

Jorge de Sena   

(1919-1978)