São quase duas da manhã. Doem-me os dedos da mão esquerda, à conta de uma guitarra espanhola feita pelo grande Grácio. Doem-me porque tenho praticado pouco.
Esta noite houve fado, Alvarinho, Don Mclean, tinto de Estremoz, Jorge Palma, cacholeira, Jobim, febras, Paul Simon, sardinhas assadas, Cat Stevens, azeitonas, Sérgio Godinho, pão alentejano, Carlos do Carmo, entrecosto, Pinho Vargas, Carvalho Ribeiro Ferreira Reserva, José Afonso, cerejas, Caetano Veloso, mousse de chocolate, Yes, café, bocas, paródia, uma vizinha a barafustar às dez e meia que amanhã tem de trabalhar, bocas, uma italiana, portugueses vários, branco gelado, anedotas, calor na frescura do terraço, bocas.
E contudo...
Bereft
Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch's sagging floor,
leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
Robert Frost
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