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William Blake --> THE LITTLE BLACK BOY
Uma pérola de William Blake (do seu livro de poemas "Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience") pra prestar minha homenagem à Zumbi (anteontem foi seu dia) e, naturalmente, à todos os cidadãos, cidadãs , heróis e heroínas africanos/afrodescendentes no Brasil e no mundo: Pixinguinha, Donga, Cartola, Nelson do Cavaquinho, Machado de Assis, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Nelson Mandela, Stephen Biko, Fela Kuti, Youssou N'Dour, Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Aretha Franklyn, Lenny de Andrade, Elza Soares, Itamar Assumpção, Luís Melodia, Emílio Santiago, Clementina de Jesus, Paula Lima, MV Bill, Chico César, Stevie Wonder, MUSSUM, Bil Cosby, Richard Pryor, Tião Macalé, Jards Macalé, MC Solaar, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Living Colour, Cidade Negra (a lista é imensa, quilométrica)!!
THE LITTLE BLACK BOY
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
'Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
'And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
'Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
'And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
Marcadores: poesia, william blake
publicado por Marlos Salustiano às 14:43
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