tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70135590598008286752024-02-19T06:30:46.823+00:00SonharesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03944561595131520662noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013559059800828675.post-42692881019726391392010-05-19T14:41:00.001+01:002011-09-06T19:46:07.876+01:00Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03944561595131520662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013559059800828675.post-60657717267727204732010-05-19T03:19:00.003+01:002010-05-19T03:24:53.300+01:00Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03944561595131520662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013559059800828675.post-9056001736332191682009-06-17T20:22:00.000+01:002009-07-12T04:36:47.252+01:00Tempo sem horas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknGhc5ITg3V7w-8g1yF8vEjW0TJIyl6wyr_jSplpHXGGN8g0HXOK9-u_RZbdIdOiDyA0JX-OnTGXa-oRUti6TbBgky-qcRu-SeXcNB1kWOdtXWEfHMjzbVhyun3GmKOkk7WhTIFQYNftJ/s1600-h/vero_atanacio_turning_r.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348383558063900578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknGhc5ITg3V7w-8g1yF8vEjW0TJIyl6wyr_jSplpHXGGN8g0HXOK9-u_RZbdIdOiDyA0JX-OnTGXa-oRUti6TbBgky-qcRu-SeXcNB1kWOdtXWEfHMjzbVhyun3GmKOkk7WhTIFQYNftJ/s320/vero_atanacio_turning_r.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Neste pequeno espaço onde por vezes pairo<br />há o canto dos pássaros que me envolve </div><div>e faz com que salte o que há de melhor em mim.<br />Fico entre a realidade e a exaltação do sonho</div><div>num espaço onde não há dor ...<br />na dormencia mágica da vida.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>pb</em></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03944561595131520662noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013559059800828675.post-3585661444870099852009-06-08T23:59:00.000+01:002009-06-09T00:11:47.636+01:00AS PALAVRAS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNr_33OqBW9gSagrOj13JL3c7ChT6e7DGreZa4dKZOZjNRb7QNDx6sAeH-JCJ1S_vVCh2jDHkd_GfdD6bWSho5txKNbJbZjLWts_xMB4hiTYokyCpAVwve_eIkwT12N08sI6koM3PcxgE/s1600-h/mulher.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNr_33OqBW9gSagrOj13JL3c7ChT6e7DGreZa4dKZOZjNRb7QNDx6sAeH-JCJ1S_vVCh2jDHkd_GfdD6bWSho5txKNbJbZjLWts_xMB4hiTYokyCpAVwve_eIkwT12N08sI6koM3PcxgE/s320/mulher.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345097452492847810" /></a>
<br />As palavras
<br />
<br />São como um cristal,
<br />as palavras.
<br />Algumas, um punhal,
<br />um incêndio.
<br />Outras,
<br />orvalho apenas.
<br />
<br />Secretas vêm,
<br />cheias de memória.
<br />Inseguras navegam:
<br />barcos ou beijos,
<br />as águas estremecem.
<br />
<br />Desamparadas, inocentes,
<br />leves.
<br />Tecidas são de luz
<br />e são a noite.
<br />E mesmo pálidas
<br />verdes paraísos lembram ainda.
<br />
<br />Quem as escuta?
<br />Quem as recolhe, assim,
<br />cruéis, desfeitas,
<br />nas suas conchas puras?
<br />
<br />(Eugénio de Andrade)
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03944561595131520662noreply@blogger.com0