sexta-feira, 3 de agosto de 2012

Quem Sou Eu! ...




            
                                                                  Dia a dia,
                                                                  Deus nos agracia,
                                                                  Mostrando a prova
                                                                  Do seu divino amor;
                                                                  Posso até não ter fé,
                                                                  Posso cair até
                                                                  No abismo da desilusão;
                                                                  E, eu eloquente,
                                                                  A vida maldizer;
                                                                  Posso dizer horrores,
                                                                  E, qual vulcão atormentado,
                                                                  Expelir dissabores
                                                                  De larvas negativas;
                                                                  Posso porque ativas
                                                                  Estão minhas tormentas,
                                                                  As sombras indesejáveis
                                                                  De uma vida sem cor;
                                                                  Só não posso e não devo,
                                                                  No limite do meu ser,
                                                                  Querer ser o que não sou;
                                                                  E continuo onde estou,
                                                                  Pois a verdade impera
                                                                  E esta não espera
                                                                  Que a mentira progrida;
                                                                  E vejo que tudo é vida
                                                                  Seja como for;
                                                                  E vejo que viver
                                                                  Intensamente,
                                                                  Não depende nunca da gente,
                                                                  Mas, do único SER criador;
                                                                  Viver já é ser agraciado,
                                                                  E eu, pobre coitado,
                                                                  A lhe dizer tanta asneira
                                                                  O SEU amor é infinito
                                                                  E a pequenez do meu grito,
                                                                  Não alcança o que significa;
                                                                  ELE é a glória que edifica,
                                                                  E que transcende o meu eu;
                                                                  Dia a dia,
                                                                  Deus nos agracia,
                                                                  Dando-nos a vida,
                                                                  A alegria e a dor.


                                                                                                                 Paulo Holanda

domingo, 29 de julho de 2012

Triste Tarde



                                  
                                                         Como as tardes de outros dias,
                                                         Uma tarde;
                                                         Uma tarde vazia,
                                                         Fria,
                                                         Melancólica.
                                                         Saio...
                                                         Tudo triste. Tristeza nesta tarde;
                                                         Uma enorme solidão.
                                                         Uma canção saudosa.
                                                         Um anjinho que passa,
                                                         Para um cemitério triste...
                                                         Os sinos dobram;
                                                         Saudades...
                                                         Lágrimas...
                                                         Risos de crianças...
                                                         E tudo o que eu não vejo,
                                                         Não ouço,
                                                         Não sinto.
                                                         Tarde de inverno;
                                                         Escura.
                                                         Como as tardes de outros dias,
                                                         Uma tarde.
                                                         Uma tarde vazia,
                                                         Fria,
                                                         Melancólica.


                                                                                                                Paulo Holanda