O TEMPO, por ALEXANDRE MEIRA. (Poema)

  

Tente segurar o tempo,

                                                 este instante
                                                                     ofegante
                                                                     a correr dos dedos.

Ele não cansa de cavar

                   trincheiras na carne.
                                                                                                 Pressa, por quê?
                                                                                                                    Não tenha
                                                                                                                             tanta.

                                    
Mas bom mesmo
seria
matar de uma vez

                   esse velho caquético
                   que segura o relógio

                                        (Ele já não agüenta os ponteiros!)

                                                                               O tempo é escasso,

                                                                                                  mas fume outro maço,
                                                                                                  Fato é que cultivo mais
                                                                                                  medos do que rugas
                                                                   
                                                      enquanto ouço seu tiquetaquear fascista.
                                                                     

Fito

                   o anoitecer mítico
                   e apocalíptico
                   de conflitos étnicos,
                   e vejo um
                   quadro onírico,
                   como monções de lágrimas 
                   inundando
                   o oceano Índico,

                                                  Não há como impedir,
                                                     pois parar o tempo

                                                                   é como pentear os raios de
                                                                                     sol
                                                                            com os dedos

                   E você verá que errou,                      
                                                        falhou,
                                                                     pecou,
                                                                     arrependido diante do trono
                                                                                                   novamente jurou,
                                                                                                                              e por fim,

           errou.

                       
                                        E o velho desgraçado cravou um ponto bem no final da linha.