pequeno jardim com gatos: o dono da bola

maio 16, 2010

o dono da bola

enquanto o dono, sentado num banco de madeira, conversava com um amigo, o velho cão sonhava, talvez, com um tempo alegre de brincadeiras, correrias e jogos. mas a quem por ali passava não deixava qualquer dúvida: era ele, ainda, o dono da bola.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake, 1794

maio 16, 2010

o dono da bola

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