Vivemos num sistema feudal!

Sim... que república que nada (nem mesmo republiquetas de bananas, como já fomos delicadamente, e, infelizmente, corretamente chamados)!! O Brasil é mesmo uma adaptação do sistema feudal, composto pelos Nobres, Bobos da Corte e Povão.

Os Bobos da Corte (nós) são os únicos que trabalham mesmo. Trabalham muito, consomem muito e pagam muitos impostos. Impostos estes que fazem a felicidade dos Nobres (Políticos e afins), que trabalham MUITO pouco e consomem muito.
Well, e o Povão (Povão mesmo, não existe outra definição... povão é povão aqui e em qualquer outro lugar)?
O povão vive às custas das migalhas (também chamadas de bolsa-família, bolsa-escola, vale gás, etc) oferecidas pelos Nobres. Se contenta com pouco: uma televisão pra ver a novela das 6, das 7 e a das 8 (o jornal nacional é a hora de desligar a tv pra ir jantar...), uns copos de cachaça no final da tarde e nos fins de semana, encher o mineirão pra ver o "Galo Forte e Vingador" ser campeão da Série B, entre outras opções de diversões massificadas.
O povão não tem muito o que fazer... trabalha pouco e consome pouco. Seu único papel nesse pseudo feudo é garantir que os Nobres continuem ocupando seus cargos com dignidade e amor.

E assim vai girando, com todo mundo vivendo feliz para sempre...


(idéia extraída de uma conversa no caminho de casa até o bh shopping, onde estava indo consumir... lógico)

Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came

by

Robert Browning

              

  

 

     My first thought was, he lied in every word

        That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

        Askance to watch the working of his lie

     On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

     Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored

        Its edge at one more victim gained thereby.

  

     What else should he be set for, with his staff?

        What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare

        All travelers that might find him posted there,

     And ask the road?  I guessed what skull-like laugh

     Would break, what crutch 'gin my epitaph

        For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.

  

     If at his counsel I should turn aside

        Into that ominous tract which, all agree,

        Hides the Dark Tower.Yet acquiescingly

     I did turn as he pointed; neither pride

     Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,

        So much as gladness that some end might be.

  

     For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,

        What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope

        Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope

     With that obstreperous joy success would bring, -

     I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring

        My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

  

     As when a sick man very near to death

        Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end

        The tears and takes the farewell of each friend

     And hears one bid the other go, draw breath

     Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith,

         "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

  

     While some discuss if near the other graves

        Be room enough for this, and when a day

        Suits best for carrying the corpse away,

     With care about the banners, scarves and staves, -

     And still the man hears all, and only craves

        He may not shame such tender love and stay.

  

     Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,

        Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ

        so many times among 'The Band' - to wit

     The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed

     Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,

        And all doubt was now - should I be fit.

  

     So, quiet as despair, I turned from him

        That hateful cripple, out of his highway

        Into the path he pointed.  All the day

     Had been a dreary one at best, and dim

     Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim

        Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

  

     For mark! no sooner was I fairly found

        Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,

        Than, pausing to throw backward a last view

     To the safe road, 'twas gone: grey plain all round;

     Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

        I might go on; nought else remained to do.

  

     So, on I went, I think I never saw

        Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve;

        For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!

     But cockle, spurge, according to their law

     Might propagate their kind, with none to awe

        You'd think; a burr had  been a treasure trove.

  

     No! penury, inertness and grimace,

        In some strange sort, were the land's portion, "See

        Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,

     "It nothing skills; I cannot help my case:

     "Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,

        Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

  

        If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk

        Above its mates, the head was chopped - the bents

        Were jealous else.  What made those holes and rents

     In the dock's harsh swarth leaves - bruised so as to baulk

     All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk

        Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

  

     As for the grass, it grew scant as hair

        In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud

        Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood

     One stiff blind horse, his every bone astare,

     Stood stupefied, however he came there:

        Thrust out past service as the devil's stud!

  

     Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,

        With that red, gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,

        And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;

     Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;

     I never saw a brute I hated so;

        He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

  

     I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

        As a man calls for wine before he fights,

           I asked for one draught of earlier, happier sights

     Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.

     Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art:

        One taste of the old time set all to rights.

  

     Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face

        Beneath its garniture of curly gold,

        Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold

     An arm in mine to fix me to the place

     The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!

        Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

  

     Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands

        Frank as ten years ago when knighted first

        What honest men should dare (he said) he durst

     Good - but then the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman's hands

     Pin to his breast a parchment? his own bands

        Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

  

     Better this Present than a Past like that:

        Back therefore to my darkening path again.

        No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.

     Will the night send a howlet or a bat?

     I asked: when something on the dismal flat

        Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train

  

     A sudden little river crossed my path

        As unexpected as a serpent comes

        No sluggish tide congenial to its glooms -

     This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath

     For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath

        Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

  

     So petty yet so spiteful! all along,

        Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;

        Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit

     Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:

     The river which had done them all wrong,

        Whate'er that was, rolled by, determined no wit.

  

     Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared

        To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek

        Each step, or fell the spear I thrust to seek

     Tangled in his hair or beard!-

     It may have been a water-rat I speared,

        But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

  

     Glad was I when I reached the other bank.

        Now for a better country. Vain presage!

        Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage

     Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank

     Soil to a plash?  toads in a poisoned tank,

        Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage -

  

     The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.

        What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?

        No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,

     None out of it.  Mad brewage set to work

     Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk

        Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

  

     And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!

        What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,

        Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel

     Men's bodies out like silk?  with all the air

     Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,

        Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

  

     Then came a bit of stubbled ground, once a wood,

        Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth

        Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,

     Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood

     Changes and off he goes!) within a rood -

        Bog clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

  

     Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,

        Now patches where some leanness of the soil's

        Broke into moss or substances like boils

     Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him,

     Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim

        Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

  

     And just as far as ever from the end!

        Nought in the distance but the evening, nought

        To point my footstep further!  At the thought,

     A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,

     Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned

        That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought.

  

     For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

        'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place

        All round to mountains - with such name to grace

     Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.

     How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!

        How to get from them was no clearer case.

  

     Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick

        Of mischief happened to me, God knows when -

        In a bad dream perhaps.   Here ended, then,

     Progress this way.  When, in the very nick

     Of giving up, one time more, came a click

        As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!

  

     Burningly it came on me all at once,

        This was the place!  those two hills on the right,

        Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;

     While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,

     Fool, to be dozing at the very nonce,

        After a life spent training for the sight!

  

     What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

        The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,

        Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

     In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf

     Points to the shipman thus the unseen self

        He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

  

     Not see? because of night perhaps? - Why day

        Came back again for that! before it left,

        The dying sunset kindled through a cleft;

     The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,

     Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, -

        "Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"

  

     Not hear? when noise was everywhere!  it tolled

        Increasing like a bell.  Names in my ears,

        Of all the lost adventurers my peers, -

     How such a one was strong, and such was bold,

     And such was fortunate, yet each of old

        Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

  

     There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met

        To view the last of me, a living frame

        For one more picture!  in a sheet of flame

     I saw them and I knew them all.  And yet

     Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

        And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."

  

Rááá!

Nunca escutou Death Cab for Cutie?
Então dá seus pulos... escuta AGORA!

Mas cuidado, risco de ficar viciado por meses e meses. =]