sexta-feira, 25 de maio de 2007
segunda-feira, 21 de maio de 2007
quinta-feira, 17 de maio de 2007
segunda-feira, 14 de maio de 2007
domingo, 13 de maio de 2007
sexta-feira, 11 de maio de 2007
terça-feira, 8 de maio de 2007
T. S. Eliot
What are the roots that clutch, what are the braches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at the morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at the evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at the morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at the evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, I. The Burial of the Dead
segunda-feira, 7 de maio de 2007
domingo, 6 de maio de 2007
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