Fragile Things, Neil Gaiman

No rasto dos versos do conto provocador de Bucay, deixo uma outra proposta.

A forma é a mesma: microconto, em verso. O autor, de outro universo... Mas primeiro deixem-me contar uma história: um dia ouvi no Rádio Club Português uma voz a cantar Silent all these Years. Depois de um telefonema relâmpago ouvi pela primeira vez o nome Tori Amos (91?92?). Algum tempo depois... as ligações sociais da temporada inglesa de Tori levaram-me ao mundo da série de banda desenhada The Sandman... os irmãos que fazem as histórias da autoria de Neil Gaiman:

Desire, Despair, Destruction, Morpheus/Dream, Death, Destiny, Delirium
[esta imagem, colada na parede, fez-me companhia durante anos.] [a Destruction, lembra alguém?...]

Continuando... alguns anos depois cruzei-me com um livro de ficção de Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere. Apesar de não ser apreciadora de histórias fantásticas, devorei o livro com gosto. Nele, a vida de Richard Mayhew muda drasticamente, após auxiliar Door, uma rapariga que encontra caída num passeio de Londres. Em consequência, vê-se envolvido numa trama desenrolada num mundo paralelo, uma cidade de monstros, santos, assassinos e anjos. Richard e Door têm a difícil missão de salvar da destruição este estranho mundo paralelo....

E assim chego a Fragile Things - short fictions and wonders. Há livros que nos puxam, sem percebermos bem o "porquê". Tem andado comigo. Estou viciada. Volto ao mundo fantástico com traços de doçura, ironia, brincadeira das histórias que saem da pena de Neil Gaiman. Assim, vem finalmente o prometido conto em verso. Hesito na escolha. Mas para responder à provocação de Bucay, vou deixar o The Fairie Reel para outro dia.

------- The Hidden Chamber -----------------------

Do not fear the ghosts in this house; they are the least of your worries.
Personally I find the noises they make reassuring. The creeks and footsteps in the night,
their little tricks of hiding things, or moving them, I find endearing, not upsettling. It makes the place feel so much
more like home.
Inhabited.
Apart from ghosts nothing lives here for long. No cats
no mice, no flies, no dreams, no bats. Two days ago
I saw a butterfly,
a monarch I believe, which danced from room to room
and perched on walls and waited near to me.
There are no flowers in this empty place,
and, scared the butterfly would starve, I forced a window wide,
cupped my two hand around her fluttering self,
feeling her wings kiss my palms so gentle,
and put her out, and watched her fly away

I've little patience with the seasons here, but
your arrival eased this winter's chill.
Please, wander round. Explore it all you wish.
I've broken with tradition on some points. If there is
one locked room here, you'll never know. You'll not find
in the cellar's fireplace old bones or hair. You'll find no blood.
Regard:
just tools, a washing-machine, a drier, a water-heater, and a chain of keys.
Nothing that can alarm you. Nothing dark.

I may be grim, perhaps, but only just as grim
as any man who suffered such affairs. Misfortune,
carelessness or pain, what matters is the loss. You'll see
the heartbreak linger in my eyes, and dream
of making me forget what came before you walked
into the hallway of this house. Bringing a little summer
in your glance, and with your smile.

While you are here, of course, you will hear the ghosts, always a room away,
and you may wake beside me in the night,
knowing that there's a space without a door,
knowing that there's a place that's locked but isn't there.
Hearing them scuffle, echo, thump and pound.

If you are wise you'll run into the night, fluttering away into the cold
wearing perhaps the laciest of shifts. The lane's hard flints
will cut your feet all bloody as you run,
so if I wished, I could just follow you,
tasting the blood and oceans of your tears. I'll wait instead,
here in my private place, and soon I'll put
a candle
in the window, love, to light your way back home.
The world flutters like insects. I think this is how I shall remember you,
my head between the white swell of your breasts,
listening to the chambers of your heart.

[Neil Gaiman, The Hidden Chamber, em Fragile Things]