terça-feira, 28 de março de 2017
sábado, 9 de agosto de 2014
• You might as well expect the rivers to run backward as that any man who was born free should be contented to be penned up and denied liberty to go where he pleases. We were taught to believe that the Great Spirit sees and hears everything, and that he never forgets, that hereafter he will give every man a spirit home according to his deserts; If he has been a good man, he will have a good home; if he has been a bad man, he will have a bad home. This I believe, and all my people believe the same. I am tired of talk that comes to nothing It makes my heart sick when I remember all the good words and all the broken promises. There has been too much talking by men who had no right to talk. It does not require many words to speak the truth. If the white man wants to live in peace with the Indian, he can live in peace. Treat all men alike.Give them all the same law.Give them all an even chance to live and grow.All men were made by the same Great Spirit Chief. They are all brothers. The Earth is the mother of all people, and all people should have equal rights upon it. Let me be a free man,free to travel, free to stop,free to work,free to trade where I choose my own teachers, free to follow the religion of my fathers,free to think and talk and act for myself, and I will obey every law, or submit to the penalty." ~ Chief Joseph, Nez Perce Native American Indian Wisdom www.facebook.com/NativeIndianWisdom
A vida amanheceu melancólica. Pela janela, um sopro teimoso impõe-te na cara a brisa matinal de um verão tímido e sonolento, como tu. Que dia é hoje? Sei lá! É mais uma manhã qualquer desta peregrinação de sentido improvisado. Lá fora, ouve-se o bulício inquieto do milheiral. As canas agitam-se, numa dança involuntária, ao capricho do vento. Do outro lado, pressente-se o azul altivo do mar. Severo e emproado, invade-me o olhar com uma vida que se me escapa. A manhã nasceu melancólica em mim. Ouço mas não entendo as vozes dos que me falam. Vejo-os mas estranho-os na sua comparência acidental na minha vida. Pressinto em cada ausência e cada silêncio breve a liberdade que me devolverá a mim. Esta paz fugidia e efémera, tantas vezes a minha única linguagem, é a minha essência e o meu martírio.