Sobre esta estranheza
Não sei ao certo se deva dizer alguma coisa. Nem estou seguro de que alguma coisa que se diga faça algum sentido ou, pelo menos, assuma um significado suficientemente digno. Porém, sinto vontade - necessidade básica, entre a espiritual e a fisiológica - de comunicar algo aos outros. Pelo sim, pelo não, e para que as palavras não me saiam erradas, trôpegas ou distorcidas, recorri aos mestres. Faço das suas palavras as minhas, embora cada um sinta apenas o que sente. Chamem-lhe empatia lírica.
Procession moves on, the shouting is over,
Praise to the glory of loved ones now gone.
Talking aloud as they sit round their tables,
Scattering flowers washed down by the rain.
Stood by the gate at the foot of the garden,
Watching them pass like clouds in the sky,
Try to cry out in the heat of the moment,
Possessed by a fury that burns from inside.
Cry like a child, though these years make me older,
With children my time is so wastefully spent,
A burden to keep, though their inner communion,
Accept like a curse an unlucky deal.
Played by the gate at the foot of the garden,
My view stretches out from the fence to the wall,
No words could explain, no actions determine,
Just watching the trees and the leaves as they fall(The Eternal. Joy Divison, Closer)