Jomard Muniz de Britto. Recife, setembro de 2018. ATENTADOS POÉTICOS

LINGUAGENS      S U B M E R S A S s s s s s s s s                                                                                                                

   relendo  SÔNIA BIERBARD

Volátil toda inocência com     velhos achaques, remorsos.                                                                                                                 

  Resistimos como flores    de go la das pelo                                                                                                                                              reino desencantado.                                                                                                                                     

Que país continua sendo                                                                                                                                    este, imaginário e submerso?                                                                                                                             

Mais interrogações.                                                                                                                                                                         Menos eleitores confiantes.                                                                                                                                   Nossa vertigem solidária                                                                                                                                                                    com o instante germinal?                                                                                                                                       Aceitemos amorosidade:    só isto nos reinventa?                                                                                                                                             Qualquer ausência                                                                                                                                                          despovoa-nos                                                                                                                                                                     de futuros prometidos.                                                                                                                                                              Alegria insólita                                                                                                                                                          desejando-se desnorteadora.                                                                                                                                                      O amanhecer sem auroras pretéritas.                                                                                                                                                                 Liberdade para este gesto antigo                                                                                                                                                   de existir:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   resistir? consistir? acender abismos?                                                                                                                                                                           A chave do tempo em que nos faremos                                                                                                                                          errantes? Nossos olhos em vendaval                                                                                                                                                          paralisam o tempo sufocante.                                                                                                                                                                                                           Eleitores (em transe) inconformistas.                                                                                                                                   Outras deusas e deuses de incertezas                                                                                                                                                                em volúpia verdejante.                                                                                                                                                                           O Brasil é nosso abismo. Onde reinventar                                                                                                                      o nervo cintilante das palavras?                                                                                                                                                Jamais esquecer a perplexidade                                                                                                                                            das pessoas, times, partidos, eleições.                                                                                                                           Nossa transpiração. Nosso silêncio voraz.                                                                                                                                    Outros abismos brasilíricos.                                                                                                                                                                      Aceitemos o inusitado                                                                                                                                          e suas temerosas mediunidades.

Jomard Muniz de Britto                            Recife, setembro de 2018                                          

 SÔNIA BIERBARD, em TRÊS TRISTES GREGAS, peça de Moisés Monteiro de Melo Neto (Moisés Neto)