Saudade... como um sonho de Van Gogh...

SAUDADE

Célia Laborne Tavares

Entrando na sala, revi a toalha sobre a mesa. O linho ainda amarelo vivo, bordado com holandesas de saia vermelha, apertou-me o coração. O passo diminuiu, os olhos pararam, a sala segurou-me.

Fiquei transitando no susto da reminiscência de quem quer e teme, mas não desvenda. Abri os olhos, fechei-os, parada entre o passado e o presente, sem lugar definido. O sentimento doeu-me naquele pedaço de pano retirado da infância. Dor sem explicação, sem vínculo, sem roteiro certo. A toalha ligou-me ao que eu não mais sabia: flor de festa, pedaço de lágrimas, canção de dúvida.

- O quê? – Por quê? Fragmento do que foi, saudade talvez. Qualquer coisa distante querendo comunicar-se. Uma pergunta longa sobre os olhos úmidos e a garganta seca. A toalha puxando um sentimento velho e novo. Saudade.

Encontro profundo com algum instante muito amado, ou, quem sabe, muito sofrido. A toalha dos dias de festa, dos dias de aniversário, dos tempos de criança. Rumor do riso de mil bocas que se desgarraram neste mundo, perdidas em casas novas e cidades afastadas.

No avental da holandesa havia uma palavra prestes a escapar-se e qualquer coisa indefinida em suas faces de bonecas mudas. Dominando tudo, o impacto de um amarelo muito antigo e verdadeiro, muito real e infantil, nos olhos já adultos. E a cor permaneceu sempre comigo, fazendo história, dizendo poema, inventando. Dei-lhe forma e ternura para que me libertasse. Porém, ela preferiu permanecer incógnita sob aquele linho.

Um amarelo que se repete sempre e se completa como um sonho de Van Gogh para um dia, quem sabe, revelar-me o segredo final.

Mas, no momento, é apenas saudade muito antiga.

...

Poema recebido via e-mail da autora. Conheça seu Blog "Vida em Plenitude", clicando aqui.

Foto: Vincent Willem van Gogh - Jovem Mulher de camponês com chapéu de palha sentada no trigal. 1890. Coleção privada, Steven A. Cohen, Greenwich, Connecticut, USA. Fonte: TFSimon

Porque a visão das estrelas me faz sonhar...

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.


Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.


Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.


Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue.


Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.


Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.


They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.


And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.


But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.


Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.


Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will.

"Não tenho certeza de nada, mas a visão das estrelas me faz sonhar"...
Vincent Van Gogh

I still miss you

To Vincent

Starry Night

Don McLean

Starry, starry night

Paint your pallet blue and gray

Look out on the summer's day

With eyes that know the darkness in my soul

Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and daffodils

Catch the breeze and winter chill

In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand

What you tired to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen

The did not know how

Perhaps they'll listen now

Starry, starry night

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze

Swirling clouds in violet haze

Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue

Colors changing hue

Morning fields of amber gray

Weathered faces lined in pain

Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

Now I understand

What you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen

They did not know how

Perhaps they'll listen now

For they could not love you

But still your love was true

And when your love was left inside

On that starry, starry night

You took your life as lovers often do

But I could have told you, Vincent

This world was never meant for one

As beautiful as you

Like the strangers that you've met

The ragged men in ragged clothes

The silver thorn, a bloody rose

Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know

What you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen

They're not listening still

Perhaps they never will

Foto: Starry Night , Vincent Van Gogh, 1899, Óleo sobre tela, MoMa . NYC