Não sei se morro, se danço.

Não sei se lua ou se cinzas das minhas letras.

Não te sei.

14. Este só pode ser um número de sorte.

Bluebird

There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
You want to screw up the
works?
You want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
Then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski,

in The Last Night Of The Hearth Poems

Trago nos cabelos tecidas as tranças esquissas.

Nelas enjauladas, num vôo enjoativo, traço andorinhas.
As andorinhas que ferem, mas não matam...

Na minha atmosfera; neste vácuo estagnado, sem vento,
num silêncio gritante, branco, frio.

Ninguém chama por elas?