a negra comitiva atravessa as águas
carregando consigo o anúncio
de que a jornada se encerra com o suspiro
e os passos largos dos enlutados
mostram a pressa que a vida tem de seguir
e no entanto, alguns insistem em agarrar instantes
e torná-los eternos na sua volatilidade
e se a loucura segue a comitiva de perto
o amor está entre eles
mesmo sem ser notado

Funeral Blues
W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let the aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He ls Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever:
I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now:
Put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean
and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now
can ever come to any good.