Momento piroso
The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.
Colleen McCullough
2 comments:
não é piroso, mas a nobre conclusão do: Still we do it. Mais uma vez o eterno retorno.
jinho
soraia
Não preferes uma piroga a um piroso? Sempre navegas e, com sorte, ainda chegas a S. Torpes antes do Verão!
Cuidado se o piroso se torna "pirogoso"!
Sing, beautiful bird!
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