S. Valentim e um poema por E.E. Cummings

Por entre dias conturbados de cartoons e OPAs, de política e futebóis, de Apitos Dourados e rankings bloguistas, é fácil esquecermo-nos de efemérides (para alguns não passa de consumismo) mais simples e por vezes significativas. Quando não se tem é um dia aborrecido e parvo, quando se tem é um dia tão bom ou melhor do que os outros, por isso aqui fica um poema, para ti, de E.E.Cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands