de lá

 continua a permitir que respire aquilo que respira

a sentir o peso do teu corpo

a ouvir nele todas as vozes, todas as ressonâncias, como num grande tímpano

num perpétuo regresso àquilo que o origina

aí, onde acontece o espanto que abre espaço ao essencial

isso em nós que não tem qualidades nem cumpre funções, que escapa a quaisquer categorias e que nenhum julgamento atinge, é a nossa verdadeira natureza

essa potência, infinitamente mais vasta que nós e que, paradoxalmente, apenas se manifesta através de cada ser que a acolhe, de cada corpo que a incarna, esse poder, ou melhor, essa presença inefável, impossível de localizar ou definir, esse silêncio, é o próprio amor que nos constitui

nc (a partir de christiane singer)

waltzing ucrania

 

waltzing matilda

now when I was a young man I carried me pack
and I lived the free life of the rover
from the murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
well, I waltzed my matilda all over
then in 1915, my country said, "son,
it's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done"
so they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
and they sent me away to the war

and the band played "waltzing matilda,"
as the ship pulled away from the quay,
and amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
we sailed off for gallipoli

how well I remember that terrible day,
how our blood stained the sand and the water;
and of how in that hell that they call suvla bay
we were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
johnny turk, he was ready, he primed himself well;
he showered us with bullets, and he rained us with
shell -- and in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
nearly blew us right back to australia

but the band played "waltzing matilda,"
as we stopped to bury our slain,
we buried ours, and the turks buried theirs,
then we started all over again

now those that were left, well, we tried to survive
in that mad world of blood, death and fire
and for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
though around me the corpses piled higher
then a big turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
and when I woke up in my hospital bed
and saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
never knew there was worse things than dying

for I'll go no more "waltzing matilda,"
all around the green bush far and free --
to hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
no more "waltzing matilda" for me

so they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
and they shipped us back home to australia
the legless, the armless, the blind, the insane,
those proud wounded heroes of suvla
and as our ship sailed into circular quay,
i looked at the place where me legs used to be,
and thanked christ there was no one waiting for me,
to grieve, to mourn and to pity

but the band played "waltzing matilda,"
as they carried us down the gangway,
but nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
then they turned all their faces away

and now every april, I sit on my porch
and I watch the parade pass before me
and I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march,
renewing old dreams in past glory,
and the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
the tired old heroes from a forgotten war
and the young people ask "what are they marching for?"
and I ask myself the same question

and the band plays "waltzing matilda,"
and the old men still answer the call,
but year by year, the numbers get fewer
someday, no one will march there at all

waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda
who'll come a-waltzing matilda with me?
and their ghosts may be heard as they pass by the
billabong,
who'll come a-waltzing matilda with me?

eric bogle

(sung by priscilla herdman)

sung by june tabor