tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68436572009-11-13T10:50:48.665Zé o meu ser que se escreve nas minhas mãos vazias. o meu ser suspenso dos meus dias.musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.comBlogger923125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-17508649627651427362008-07-07T23:22:00.006Z2008-08-26T22:36:34.288Z<strong><em>Lembrar é querer inventar o futuro para poder lembrar<br />ainda mais. A memória um pedaço de futuro que vai existir<br />para ser lembrado...</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SHKldRTlU6I/AAAAAAAAAmE/FRMyqNvJyYA/s1600-h/brb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220416840356156322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SHKldRTlU6I/AAAAAAAAAmE/FRMyqNvJyYA/s400/brb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>como as borboletas que aprendi<br />sobre o parapeito<br />e fizeram<br />este livro que agora termino</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>nunca estiveram tão vivas...</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br />...> ...> ...> <span style="color:#ffcc33;">butterfly thing</span><br /><a href="http://moriana2.blogspot.com/">moriana2.</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Jorge Reis-Sá<br />(excertos de poema)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-1750864962765142736?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-78747104914890785212008-07-03T22:28:00.003Z2008-07-03T22:40:37.539Z<strong><em>E se o nosso amor vivesse para sempre,<br />que seria de nós então?</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SG1S-s6BsAI/AAAAAAAAAl8/jaCEK9PnrVc/s1600-h/anke22.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218918780352180226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SG1S-s6BsAI/AAAAAAAAAl8/jaCEK9PnrVc/s400/anke22.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(...)<br /><strong><em>É na separação que nos encontramos.<br />Se o nosso amor fosse para sempre,<br />com a certeza que só Deus sabe,<br />o nosso amor terminava hoje como nunca.<br /></em></strong><br />Jorge Reis-Sá<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Excertos do poema, <em>Our Love is Gonna Live Forever</em><br />Fotografia de Anke<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-7874710491489078521?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-39262586450353278792008-06-29T02:06:00.004Z2008-06-29T02:23:14.888Z<strong>nascem ondas nas planícies</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SGbuVkDJBdI/AAAAAAAAAl0/FT7ItRwVRek/s1600-h/anke.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SGbuVkDJBdI/AAAAAAAAAl0/FT7ItRwVRek/s400/anke.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217119272576812498" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>vou ver o mar e soltar os pássaros<br />quem sabe ficamos por lá<br />ou regressamos<br /><br /><br />e o canto do pastor<br />nas planícies<br />d'Auvergne...</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em><em><strong>Pastre couci forai<br />En obal io lou bel riou!<br />Dio lou bailero lero<br /><br /><strong>(Shepherd, the water divides us<br />And I can't cross it<br />Sing bailero lero)</strong></em></strong></em></strong><br /><br /><strong>Kire Te Kanawa</strong><br /><em>Bailero</em><br />Joseph Canteloube<br />Chants d'Auvergne<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-3926258645035327879?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-29169973787016276122008-06-25T22:55:00.006Z2008-06-25T23:14:09.822Z<strong><em>(...) nós fomos prometidos ao amor pela terna mistificação dos livros<br /><br /></em></strong><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SGLOC4jVtHI/AAAAAAAAAls/ixhIW8rDSGU/s1600-h/anke24.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215957867384124530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SGLOC4jVtHI/AAAAAAAAAls/ixhIW8rDSGU/s400/anke24.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>e tu levas a minha música ao colo,<br />quem mais o faria por mim?<br /></em></strong><br /><br />Rui Pires Cabral<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(excertos do poema, The Cage)<br />Fotografia de Anke<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-2916997378701627612?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-16264608528552140022008-06-23T23:45:00.007Z2008-06-24T00:04:07.970Z<div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em>Pediu um café expresso, pegou na caneta e desdobrou um saco de papel que encontrou no chão. começou a rabiscar, a boca num meio sorriso, pensando na origem humilde do seu grande livro.</em></strong></span></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></strong></div><br /><br /><div align="justify">Irvin D. Yalom</div><div align="justify">in <strong><em>Mentiras no Divã</em></strong></div><br /><br /><br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-1626460852855214002?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-73215314180148203982008-06-20T21:32:00.004Z2008-06-20T21:57:23.947Z<strong>e todavia...</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFwlXs4jYpI/AAAAAAAAAlc/KZWfjKfMnnI/s1600-h/kchau56.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFwlXs4jYpI/AAAAAAAAAlc/KZWfjKfMnnI/s400/kchau56.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214083557703770770" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em><strong>e todavia, eu tenho um céu,<br />avesso ao que redime,<br />mas céu</strong></em><br /><br />Ana Luísa Amaral<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de Katia Chausheva<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-7321531418014820398?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-13837011735088923482008-06-18T23:13:00.003Z2008-06-18T23:35:51.273Z<strong>a curiosidade matou o gato</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFmW52wFdRI/AAAAAAAAAlU/CGk7XTGKkdw/s1600-h/petitpoids.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213363964351968530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFmW52wFdRI/AAAAAAAAAlU/CGk7XTGKkdw/s400/petitpoids.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>gato escaldado<br />de água fria<br />tem medo<br /><br />de noite<br />todos os gatos<br />são pardos<br /><br />gato escondido<br />com rabo de fora<br /><br />um olho no prato<br />outro no gato</strong><br /><br /><strong>a loja do gato preto<br />casas livres<br />pessoas felizes<br /></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>casas livres...pessoas felizes...casas felizes...pessoas livres<br />o gato preto da loja...</strong><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de moumine<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-1383701173508892348?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-15549591314897102882008-06-16T23:47:00.002Z2008-06-16T23:54:48.057Z<strong><em>old dress</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFb8SVlQ7vI/AAAAAAAAAlM/0cfDyuPgLy4/s1600-h/old_dress__by_rooze.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212631010689216242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFb8SVlQ7vI/AAAAAAAAAlM/0cfDyuPgLy4/s400/old_dress__by_rooze.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>This is the frst thing<br />I have understood:<br />Time is the echo of an axe<br />Within a wood.<br /><br /></em></strong><br />Philip Larkin<br />XXVI, in <em>Collected Poems</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>penduro o olhar frente à cama<br />e todas as tuas flores ficam em suspenso</strong><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Fotografia de Rooze</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-1554959131489710288?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-64946257118343980952008-06-12T22:41:00.004Z2008-06-13T09:31:41.553Z<strong><em>why does it always rain on me...</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFGmbJhw_ZI/AAAAAAAAAk0/KSuvajokjaw/s1600-h/laila10.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211129229188595090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SFGmbJhw_ZI/AAAAAAAAAk0/KSuvajokjaw/s400/laila10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>todos saiem e entram<br />e as portas mantêem-se fechadas<br />lá fora neva continuamente<br />neva pequenos cristais de <em>coeurs brisés</em><br /><br />neva mas ninguém dá por nada<br />nem quando as mãos se tocam<br />a neve faz parte do cenário<br />mas a neve não faz parte do cenário<br />a neve congela a solidão<br />não vá ela derreter no pulsar do coração<br /></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Coeurs</em><br />Alain Resnais<br /><br />(Travis/<em>why does it always rain on me</em>)<br />Fotografia de Katia Chausheva<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-6494625711834398095?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-57766843420803946002008-06-10T00:35:00.002Z2008-06-10T00:43:19.075Z<strong>depois de "um mau passo"...<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SE3M43IXBJI/AAAAAAAAAks/kFMpm0WdI-Q/s1600-h/sunday__by_rooze.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210045621181285522" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SE3M43IXBJI/AAAAAAAAAks/kFMpm0WdI-Q/s400/sunday__by_rooze.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>o repouso</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de Rooze<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-5776684342080394600?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-1449585475737083892008-06-08T20:22:00.002Z2008-06-08T20:51:09.920Z<strong>feeling on the edge</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SExAKKK1dvI/AAAAAAAAAkk/w1b13S6Sh9s/s1600-h/cig_h.1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209609412233492210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SExAKKK1dvI/AAAAAAAAAkk/w1b13S6Sh9s/s400/cig_h.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>tiptoeing towards the edge<br /><br />standing at the edge<br /><br />falling<br /><br />down</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>down...</strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-144958547573708389?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-59699685611782280862008-06-05T22:49:00.003Z2008-06-05T23:03:04.968Z<strong>Don't be afraid<br />What you're mind conceals</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SEhuG-wOSkI/AAAAAAAAAkM/lIJb4cfANFo/s1600-h/muse1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208534035257510466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SEhuG-wOSkI/AAAAAAAAAkM/lIJb4cfANFo/s400/muse1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>And whatever they say<br />Your soul's unbreakable<br /><br /></strong><br /><strong>You should make a stand<br />Stand up for what you believe<br /><br /></strong><br /><strong>Don't give up the fight<br />You will be alright</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Muse<br /><em>Invincible</em><br /><br />Fotografia de Rooze<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-5969968561178228086?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-51454911446826554552008-06-01T20:09:00.007Z2008-06-01T20:39:35.153Z<strong><em>e os meus olhos são pesadas gotas escuras<br /></em></strong><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SEMDm-wOSjI/AAAAAAAAAkE/1HjnpJjucIw/s1600-h/anke32.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207009562385599026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SEMDm-wOSjI/AAAAAAAAAkE/1HjnpJjucIw/s400/anke32.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"><strong><em>na minha alma nascem </em></strong><br /><strong><em>as flores doces</em></strong> <strong><em>do teu olhar</em></strong><br /><strong><em>e ele enche-se</em></strong><br /><strong><em>quando os meus olhos</em></strong><br /><strong><em>se exilam para o sono</em></strong><br /><br />Else Lasker-Schüler<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SEMCfewOSiI/AAAAAAAAAj8/o9U9rsBNmvE/s1600-h/anke12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207008334024952354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SEMCfewOSiI/AAAAAAAAAj8/o9U9rsBNmvE/s400/anke12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><em><strong>na sua inocência,</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>as coisas por nós</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>perdidas</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>dançam</strong></em><br /><strong></strong><br /><br /></div><div align="right"></div><div align="right"></div><div align="right">Mário Rui de Oliveira</div><div align="right"></div><div align="right"></div><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografias de Anke Marzbach<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-5145491144682655455?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-79090001139757010702008-05-27T21:42:00.005Z2008-05-27T21:59:32.054Z<strong>diz-me que o teu nome quer apenas dizer o teu nome</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDyAnuwOSgI/AAAAAAAAAjs/BMfZEtvrSP4/s1600-h/konrad+zagloba2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDyAnuwOSgI/AAAAAAAAAjs/BMfZEtvrSP4/s400/konrad+zagloba2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205176689386998274" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de Konrad Zagloba<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-7909000113975701070?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-63008035624016505262008-05-24T13:07:00.006Z2008-05-24T13:22:09.387Z<strong>ao princípio, deseja-se muito provar o cuscuz<br />sentar áquela mesa....</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDgTTuwOSeI/AAAAAAAAAjc/hVDc5Xwb8WI/s1600-h/400x330.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDgTTuwOSeI/AAAAAAAAAjc/hVDc5Xwb8WI/s400/400x330.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203930599115344354" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>depois, deseja-se muito,<br />mesmo muito, que o cuscuz reapareça...</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>no final, já não nos interessa<br />o sabor do cuscuz</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>e nada tem a ver com o cuscuz...<br />poderia ser, por exemplo, um arroz de polvo...</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em><strong>O segredo de um cuscuz</strong></em> (La graine et le mulet)<br />Abdellatif Kechiche<br />espantosamente belo...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-6300803562401650526?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-68803656387518179032008-05-22T21:23:00.002Z2008-05-22T21:42:41.662Z<div align="left"><strong><em>amo-te nesta ideia nocturna da luz nas mãos</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDXn1OwOSdI/AAAAAAAAAjU/4e7awMzJySs/s1600-h/laila5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203319846175918546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDXn1OwOSdI/AAAAAAAAAjU/4e7awMzJySs/s400/laila5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>e<em> queria cair em desuso,<br />fundir-me completamente</em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="right">Daniel Faria</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de Katia Chausheva<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-6880365638751817903?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-4418344300954809632008-05-20T22:59:00.003Z2008-05-20T23:32:31.732Z<strong>os ciclos...</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDNam3b8cGI/AAAAAAAAAjM/ZY7s966YZ-8/s1600-h/laila6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202601618305740898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDNam3b8cGI/AAAAAAAAAjM/ZY7s966YZ-8/s400/laila6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>ciclo dos pensamentos<br />ciclo dos afectos<br />ciclo da vida<br /></strong><br /><strong>repetem-se de forma tão diversa<br /><br />polissemia da cor<br />vermelho<br /></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de Katia Chausheva<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-441834430095480963?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-5522635615654905822008-05-20T22:35:00.005Z2008-05-20T22:53:55.310Z<div align="left"><strong>não ouso sequer perturbar a tua imobilidade<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDNTWnb8cFI/AAAAAAAAAjE/tYLKCBZrZWI/s1600-h/laila3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202593642551472210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SDNTWnb8cFI/AAAAAAAAAjE/tYLKCBZrZWI/s400/laila3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>escuto com toda a clareza a metamorfose<br />que se desenrola em ti enquanto<br />te desamarras e rompes o rodeio<br />estremeces-me brutalmente<br />- és o único diamante que riscou a minha pele</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="right">Frederico Mira George<br /><em># 21</em> in <em>Quarenta Romances<br />de Cavalaria e outros poemas</em></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">Fotografia de Katia Chausheva<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-552263561565490582?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-82085523162708325882008-05-15T20:52:00.002Z2008-05-15T20:58:56.055Z<em><strong>Escrevo-te onde te criei</strong><br /></em><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCyil3b8cEI/AAAAAAAAAi8/1zjCcLV300Y/s1600-h/laila.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200710441126096962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCyil3b8cEI/AAAAAAAAAi8/1zjCcLV300Y/s400/laila.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em><strong>tentando conservar</strong><br /><strong>o labor da imaginação</strong>.<br /><br /><strong>Amputada</strong>,<br /><strong>dói-me o que me falta</strong></em>.<br /><br />Ana Marques Gastão,<br /><em>Lápis Mínimo</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fotografia de Katia Chausheva<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-8208552316270832588?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-75971870344297703142008-05-14T22:13:00.004Z2008-05-14T22:22:28.360Z<strong><em>I don’t know how to begin, 'cause the story has been told before<br /></em></strong><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCtkvnb8cAI/AAAAAAAAAic/cSWgodIHiBY/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200360963932188674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCtkvnb8cAI/AAAAAAAAAic/cSWgodIHiBY/s400/untitled.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>my blueberry nights...</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>(porque não senti o mesmo deslumbramento de, <em>In the Mood for Love</em>? )</strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-7597187034429770314?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-65319587102965056252008-05-13T21:37:00.004Z2008-05-13T22:24:32.762Z<strong>Анна Каренина</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCoKhnb8b_I/AAAAAAAAAiU/EQSUA1uJpIY/s1600-h/Blind_by_vampire_zombie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCoKhnb8b_I/AAAAAAAAAiU/EQSUA1uJpIY/s400/Blind_by_vampire_zombie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199980292390809586" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>escondo os olhos<br />para procurar-te<br /><br />meu coração</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(<em>há uma fita de sangue a prender o teu cabelo. não tenhas medo</em>)<br /> Dylan Thomas<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-6531958710296505625?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-75249859952809392092008-05-11T22:26:00.002Z2008-05-11T22:42:50.607Z<strong>retrato de família...</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCdy4Xb8b-I/AAAAAAAAAiM/yBofg-qQjPE/s1600-h/sala+chinesa+044.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCdy4Xb8b-I/AAAAAAAAAiM/yBofg-qQjPE/s400/sala+chinesa+044.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199250607511990242" /></a><br /><strong>...tu a fixares o meu êxodo da moldura e eu a dizer-te é <em>nos teus lábios </em>que <em>o sabor a tinta me atrai*</em></strong><br /><br />(*António Franco Alexandre in <em>Quatro Caprichos</em>)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-7524985995280939209?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-1711933530285881702008-05-10T20:19:00.006Z2008-05-10T20:34:12.165Z<strong>a conjugar...</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCYD5_cwN0I/AAAAAAAAAh8/h-3gJ1o-q4w/s1600-h/capa.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCYD5_cwN0I/AAAAAAAAAh8/h-3gJ1o-q4w/s400/capa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198847114665277250" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>eu tenho<br />tu tens<br />ele(a) tem<br />nós temos<br />vós tendes<br />eles(as) têm</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>see you in august</strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-171193353028588170?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-47728039562340217552008-05-06T22:03:00.003Z2008-05-06T22:18:09.345Z<strong><em>PELA MANHÃ dentro esperei ontem,</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCDWaUUNBXI/AAAAAAAAAhc/TLe0BVrA7M4/s1600-h/Tree_by_ElifKarakoc.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197389717603943794" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SCDWaUUNBXI/AAAAAAAAAhc/TLe0BVrA7M4/s400/Tree_by_ElifKarakoc.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>diziam eles que não virias, supunham.<br />Maravilhoso dia, lembras-te?<br />Um feriado! - Dispensa casaco.<br /><br />Hoje vieste, e o dia pôs-se<br />soturno, de chumbo,<br />e chovia, fazendo-se tarde,<br />com gotículas na ramagem fria</em></strong>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Não pode a palavra mitigar, nem o lenço devolver pureza.<br /></em></strong><br />Andreii Tarkovskii in <em>«8 ícones»</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Fotografia de ElifKarakoc</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-4772803956234021755?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6843657.post-56111911014340511302008-05-04T20:32:00.009Z2008-05-09T20:36:43.980Z<div align="left"><strong><em>tudo é demasiado tarde<br /></em></strong><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SB4dy0UNBWI/AAAAAAAAAhU/DrrTaeXuUaQ/s1600-h/kchau52.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196623778906178914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5JPR89MUMF8/SB4dy0UNBWI/AAAAAAAAAhU/DrrTaeXuUaQ/s400/kchau52.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>não somos dignos uns dos outros</em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="right"><br />Paul Bowles, <em>Elegia </em><br />(tradução José Agostinho Baptista) </div><p><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /></p><p> </p><p>Fotografia de Katia Chausheva </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6843657-5611191101434051130?l=moriana.blogspot.com'/></div>musaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10803861382524547552noreply@blogger.com10