There are no truces with the furies

Ás vezes descubro poemas e poetas até então para mim desconhecidos e reconheço-me neles de forma tão incontornável que não consigo evitar o sentimento algo patético de achar que são o meu eco.

Neste caso, o meu eco contra a passividade.

"The furies are at home in the mirror, it is their address
Even the clearest water can drown, if deep enough
Never think to surprise them
Your face approaching
Ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore
There is no truce with the furies

(A mirrors temperature is always at zero)
It is ice in the veins
Its camera is an x-ray
It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion
Where you gaspingly partake of a shifting identity
Never your own

There are no truces with the furies
For they are their own enemy
Always at guard, perhaps the enemy will attack?
Always a gun in the hand,
an ice-cold hand,
An iron hand that stretches over a blanket of lost souls
No individuals, only barcodes

No real souls,
only ideal models
I can feel the gas,
the furies breath
The clearest water, toxicated.

The white flag, only a member left
One can almost feel the eyes
An everlasting gaze from such cold eyes
You can feel the burn in our eyes
Only a lost world
Science, we are science
A failed project called life, terminated, re-recorded aliens..."


R.S. Thomas