quinta-feira, 23 de agosto de 2012

A Escolha...




                                                Olho o firmamento indecifrável e infindo,
                                                E vejo estrelas brilharem reluzentes,
                                                Qual corolário de beleza extrema;
                                                E entre estrelas busco o decifrável,
                                                O que a cansada vista me deixa ver...
                                                Vejo a grandeza infinita do Criador,
                                                Emoldurada na mais sublime prece,
                                                Na mais encantadora prova de amor!
                                                Deus, na sua magnanimidade plena,
                                                Revela ao ser, de limitados dotes,
                                                Quão significativa é a obra criadora;
                                                Só não nos deixa entrar nos seus desígnios,
                                                Mas, nos permite ver os seus encantos.
                                                Cada criatura com a sua missão,
                                                E o livre arbítrio para a sua escolha:
                                                Crer ou não crer, amar ou não amar.


                                                                                                                    Paulo Holanda

domingo, 19 de agosto de 2012

Poema ao Mar




                                                                     Dias após dias,
                                                                     Marés bravias
                                                                     Agitam o mar.
                                                                     De fortes ventos
                                                                     Soam lamentos
                                                                     Ao ressoar.


                                                                     Dias após dias,
                                                                     Quais sinfonias
                                                                     Em alto mar:
                                                                     Ondas que valsam,
                                                                     Águas que passam
                                                                     Pra não voltar.


                                                                     Passaram os ventos,
                                                                     Os seus lamentos...
                                                                     Tudo passou.
                                                                     O mar, sereno,
                                                                     O som ameno
                                                                     Tranquilizou.


                                                                     Passaram os ventos,
                                                                     Ventos sedentos...
                                                                     A paz voltou.
                                                                     A suave brisa
                                                                     Nas águas desliza
                                                                     O seu frescor.


                                                                     Plácidos mares,
                                                                     Valsar dos ares,
                                                                     Melodioso.
                                                                     Ondas sonoras,
                                                                     Cantar d’auroras,
                                                                     Véu precioso.


                                                                     Plácidos mares,
                                                                     Mãos modelares
                                                                     Da CRIAÇÃO.
                                                                     O Belo que infunde
                                                                     E até se confunde
                                                                     Com a imensidão.


                                                                                                                     Paulo Holanda