tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23517336612674299562024-03-19T08:00:19.327+00:00tesouros do fundo do marmanuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comBlogger191125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-78210532544998537442021-10-29T18:26:00.008+01:002021-10-29T18:45:20.272+01:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQuF8QBKCw5Ls-IQC4gWCkqef2LJDh1h443fg57slONiirsyPFZCdXTcmLy0JbGMf1L4ZmrPEoxychYKwaHwhpm950DKrzfkNx7_Wy-cSJeKEYItSfX0hlxZGJmEPjVsNOm-Gt0v6MkQq/s900/Aleksander+Smid+-+Where%2527s+my+mommy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="900" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQuF8QBKCw5Ls-IQC4gWCkqef2LJDh1h443fg57slONiirsyPFZCdXTcmLy0JbGMf1L4ZmrPEoxychYKwaHwhpm950DKrzfkNx7_Wy-cSJeKEYItSfX0hlxZGJmEPjVsNOm-Gt0v6MkQq/w400-h280/Aleksander+Smid+-+Where%2527s+my+mommy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><b>Onde estás,
perguntou a rapariga. Lá fora qualquer coisa fez ondular as ervas do caminho,
um sopro breve, uma gota ou duas de chuva fraca. Não me assustas, insistiu. Mas
assustou-se. Largou com ruído a portada da janela, encolheu-se, escondeu-se
debaixo da cama. Com o dedo indicador desenhou um bicho bom no pó que cobria o
chão e um bicho mau de olhos grandes e avermelhados. Os dois lutaram entre si
durante três dias e três noites, imaginou ela.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", "sans-serif""><b>Depois o medo
foi-se embora e ela também. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b> <i>Where's my mommy </i>de Aleksander Smid</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><p></p>manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-1563590897268071552020-11-16T19:01:00.003+00:002021-10-30T11:06:18.180+01:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0p4zUMW6oXLZcq6Z2aYYnuYPIVsvBZ8EVB-8NdFHY5512qV40RqtNh3vD7ccCug4J_UFPUPhv8C6b9dvhf8zBIG08JpJYZ2CWaQD5QQzTcxrZmuTrZPvDqwwNzpd4NWIwa_AgwgCrdzV/s500/Samanta+Winter+lullaby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="500" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0p4zUMW6oXLZcq6Z2aYYnuYPIVsvBZ8EVB-8NdFHY5512qV40RqtNh3vD7ccCug4J_UFPUPhv8C6b9dvhf8zBIG08JpJYZ2CWaQD5QQzTcxrZmuTrZPvDqwwNzpd4NWIwa_AgwgCrdzV/w400-h290/Samanta+Winter+lullaby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: PT; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Ela sabia. Ele andava por ali, a rondar as casas, a
cheirar as esquinas, a marcar o território das almas sombrias. </span></b><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Não me metes medo, disse a rapariga. Tenho no bolso uma
pedra afiada, sei uma cantilena para adormecer os ursos e as marmotas e o gelo
quebra-se se eu soprar de mansinho num dia de chuva talvez. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Ele não respondeu, invisível, surdo, indiferente. Falava
a linguagem dos loucos em frente a uma parede branca e vazia. </b><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A rapariga calou-se, encostou a cabeça ao vidro e ouviu
nitidamente as vozes das crianças perdidas a chamar.</b></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Winter lullaby </i>de Samanta</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><p></p>manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-79166092248263065142020-09-19T18:45:00.001+01:002020-09-20T09:06:22.325+01:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_swk798qggvt1tYUsArpcwh1zNjSJYBOiwZV46caG7-o4GDtrrTcGYfHIgsNUAwqYsmSiFg2FBcM4ouACUyd5vjs3x-RY_GkYEGrvdpS-caYAO8WzP-l5MT6foDeqx9RuxJFbxQSfPoe/s500/Ben+Goossens+Wing+sailing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_swk798qggvt1tYUsArpcwh1zNjSJYBOiwZV46caG7-o4GDtrrTcGYfHIgsNUAwqYsmSiFg2FBcM4ouACUyd5vjs3x-RY_GkYEGrvdpS-caYAO8WzP-l5MT6foDeqx9RuxJFbxQSfPoe/w400-h300/Ben+Goossens+Wing+sailing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;"><b>O pássaro voava
por ali e o rapaz observava-lhe a alegria do canto, o prazer da chuva nas
penas, a liberdade de ir e voltar. O rapaz era triste e pálido, o pássaro era
colorido e determinado. O rapaz oferecia-lhe sementes e o pássaro pousava-lhe
no ombro e segredava-lhe cantos de encantar. Empresta-me uma asa, pediu o rapaz, por
dois ou três dias para eu navegar. E o pássaro emprestou.</b><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i> </i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Wing sailing </i>de Ben Goossens</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><p></p>manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-30654512644204686342020-07-13T18:45:00.001+01:002020-07-13T18:45:45.250+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1b8aOVLjVE8_4prMbQPR7GuULsZImN2aNHqY4DkGedrtiqWqpmXWf8T-abuQTzqsHSHBjEJE83fKvZbOSXfszGuCypHA4XdJa524sZXWcSEYQ3MaH6kP0j3-NuQwOlhcl49j5nNBDL0Jg/s1600/Ali+Khataw+The+Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1b8aOVLjVE8_4prMbQPR7GuULsZImN2aNHqY4DkGedrtiqWqpmXWf8T-abuQTzqsHSHBjEJE83fKvZbOSXfszGuCypHA4XdJa524sZXWcSEYQ3MaH6kP0j3-NuQwOlhcl49j5nNBDL0Jg/s400/Ali+Khataw+The+Face.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Deus envergonhado, escondeu-se e chorou. A criança continuou a contemplá-lo como se ele existisse ainda e era manso o seu olhar e silenciosa a linha desenhada na sua boca e a interrogação marcada entre as suas sobrancelhas. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Ao entardecer um vento quente quebrou o caule de uma flor amarela.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>The Face</i> de Ali Khataw</b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-55012013873562681712020-05-26T15:46:00.002+01:002020-05-26T15:48:15.068+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHeQsobIABQOBuJm1Eo6ePuV494l0ALUXQwKhOAGZ-5pExS7GdhrZS3wd8u0qtj1ymHHP9QRNxHi-ADTZxYo-zAmzT8Bqbl36LL_Kez6jI3rVDy08KTq0Hc_Jme4voG-URKI2LeWS9QqV/s1600/Ben+Goossens+High+in+the+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="500" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHeQsobIABQOBuJm1Eo6ePuV494l0ALUXQwKhOAGZ-5pExS7GdhrZS3wd8u0qtj1ymHHP9QRNxHi-ADTZxYo-zAmzT8Bqbl36LL_Kez6jI3rVDy08KTq0Hc_Jme4voG-URKI2LeWS9QqV/s400/Ben+Goossens+High+in+the+sky.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Vamos viajar, perguntou o peixe. O rapaz assobiou, o pássaro cantou. E porque era perigosa a travessia, o peixe ergueu-se bem alto no céu azul marinho e foram os três silenciosamente atentos a qualquer alteração das ondas, das praias e das marés.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>High in the sky</i> de Ben Goossens</b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-60373631000915915032020-03-18T11:52:00.004+00:002020-03-18T11:52:46.462+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLRkxGvI8_vDLw_0grywnay9BPIgTKWsQSUhX5QVhn94uwAvZY4Kf-0Qjez3irYHIV53LmkfjrUt8_Wkr9RRNVMwyD5kLU0vTEU_6DDQf-1taLJ-JkyV0m5NT80xYlbUkZU3wdZ46Gd0t/s1600/holger+droste+the+visitor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="330" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLRkxGvI8_vDLw_0grywnay9BPIgTKWsQSUhX5QVhn94uwAvZY4Kf-0Qjez3irYHIV53LmkfjrUt8_Wkr9RRNVMwyD5kLU0vTEU_6DDQf-1taLJ-JkyV0m5NT80xYlbUkZU3wdZ46Gd0t/s400/holger+droste+the+visitor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Pode um pássaro construir a sua própria gaiola?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>The visitor</i> de Holger Droste</b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-91872280761320053972020-01-20T17:30:00.001+00:002020-01-20T17:32:50.016+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3x2SiX2gZGxYA3ATOsfdnNzBl-oC8fAPRR2HGqDjvRwGxy14zGpvXyWfuYE4sEVFolN3ieY2LoIGVbrose1K2BaYyVaAPRHasxf-m1TG2TVKzW6_GwEqxRRvbNMi07KfdU7RtDu_Ws0m/s1600/Samanta+Misty+blue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="350" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3x2SiX2gZGxYA3ATOsfdnNzBl-oC8fAPRR2HGqDjvRwGxy14zGpvXyWfuYE4sEVFolN3ieY2LoIGVbrose1K2BaYyVaAPRHasxf-m1TG2TVKzW6_GwEqxRRvbNMi07KfdU7RtDu_Ws0m/s400/Samanta+Misty+blue.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Tece-a de noite
no canto superior direito da janela da cozinha. De manhã, entre a caneca de
café e o embaciado do vidro, eu digo-lhe, vai-te embora, leva a teia para os
ramos da laranjeira, para as folhas da roseira brava. Ela diz que não, não
quer, gosta de estar ali no canto superior direito da janela da cozinha. </b></span><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mas eu sei que
ela esconde uma rapariga triste entre os fios de seda. </b><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">E confundem-se as três, a
teia, a aranha e a rapariga triste.</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Misty blue </i>de Samanta</b></span><br />
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-72910030968341238852019-11-03T18:09:00.000+00:002019-11-03T18:10:23.963+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz70Obw4ghPtp0yunrGOYo1hqapvzBIFoKXeZaw5Pz2uRvyYKkPy04ncyMJQ-czUBQYS4ZAm2NIat7tj1iQCukyZMVjIrLUgwxUrnK6LSGAkyU5mGdZIlFwa9Z9amHUMkNAFVwp6vZT-Zn/s1600/Anna+Niemioc+Collar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz70Obw4ghPtp0yunrGOYo1hqapvzBIFoKXeZaw5Pz2uRvyYKkPy04ncyMJQ-czUBQYS4ZAm2NIat7tj1iQCukyZMVjIrLUgwxUrnK6LSGAkyU5mGdZIlFwa9Z9amHUMkNAFVwp6vZT-Zn/s320/Anna+Niemioc+Collar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Eram rígidas as
regras, as filas, as esperas, as vésperas, as sombras das colunas e dos
altares. </b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">E no entanto os pássaros voavam e os bolsos da bata sufocavam de tantas castanhas cruas.
Roíamo-las a rir sempre que o sino da torre badalava um canto.</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Collar</i> de Anna Niemioc</span></b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-45740310966652228822019-10-10T15:52:00.001+01:002019-10-10T15:52:54.941+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5NBd21Z5hK13s_EtATBcLoB86xEtEWM9_o6vU67NvHvO84K-X5vaTOcIDPe0pT4UbkHT-brRUQyoyUEBDSjFnZIrwnsQ1nvMmSqmgdNOKDNAiLHrfj93Rb9ax6XzyxcE9vJ4UTFKuCZk/s1600/Alicjia+O%2527Sullivan+sisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="500" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5NBd21Z5hK13s_EtATBcLoB86xEtEWM9_o6vU67NvHvO84K-X5vaTOcIDPe0pT4UbkHT-brRUQyoyUEBDSjFnZIrwnsQ1nvMmSqmgdNOKDNAiLHrfj93Rb9ax6XzyxcE9vJ4UTFKuCZk/s400/Alicjia+O%2527Sullivan+sisters.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Chegava outubro e eu com medo da escola. Os plátanos
ladeavam o caminho da ida e acalmavam-me o caminho de volta. Dos pássaros, não
me recordo.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Eu gostava dos contos, ela, das contas. Eu distraía-me
com o vento lá fora. Ela concentrava-se a dissecar caracóis e minhocas. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>A infância é um barco de papel a navegar sem âncora.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Sisters </i>de Alicjia O'Sullivan</span></b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-40478388883307736962019-08-05T17:39:00.000+01:002019-08-05T17:39:07.196+01:00<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZdPHjHz6y_pMLpj2tm5tZVBSQI9O71SDyCBB57ans21CBseEzJIU6bM7lljIc7OMhQtRRG9YqSRHwOYBuBqptUHIhRuQ09ZF4YM-dIRSBLO81yZp3AFf3_T9vWHaUnOKfyXzyI8aKNex/s1600/Alicjia+O%2527Sullivan+....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="305" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZdPHjHz6y_pMLpj2tm5tZVBSQI9O71SDyCBB57ans21CBseEzJIU6bM7lljIc7OMhQtRRG9YqSRHwOYBuBqptUHIhRuQ09ZF4YM-dIRSBLO81yZp3AFf3_T9vWHaUnOKfyXzyI8aKNex/s400/Alicjia+O%2527Sullivan+....jpg" width="271" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Era redondo o mês de agosto. Como a curva do horizonte, o
lago dos peixes no parque, o ringue para jogar ao mata, mato eu, tu não. Era
eterno também. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Só muito depois demos conta das raízes secas das videiras
e da embriaguez patética dos homens à porta das tabernas ao entardecer.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>… fotografia de Alicjia O’Sullivan</b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-17161891631410093682019-06-20T17:34:00.000+01:002019-06-20T17:34:07.227+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYnMEVgpBXcsErLKqywj9xAP-WvzPPJ7UDEzoUJqNhpv5Ic4mr75mPdxM0VlpSTbuVeNZaMP0l2Y4U8O-1qwGdVqV5KZGfnwCYIA462Hh4pL_xPwqsEeNqmup3hxNQ-wy_4bgdnKoYRwf/s1600/Svetlana+Bekyarova+M..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="371" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYnMEVgpBXcsErLKqywj9xAP-WvzPPJ7UDEzoUJqNhpv5Ic4mr75mPdxM0VlpSTbuVeNZaMP0l2Y4U8O-1qwGdVqV5KZGfnwCYIA462Hh4pL_xPwqsEeNqmup3hxNQ-wy_4bgdnKoYRwf/s400/Svetlana+Bekyarova+M..jpg" width="328" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Não escrevo mais, disse a rapariga. Guardou a caneta, fechou o caderno quadriculado e arrumou-o na prateleira da estante. Os livros agitaram-se um pouco e sussurraram-lhe, vais arrepender-te. A rapariga gritou, calem-se, e pegando na máquina fotográfica foi registando o pó da sala e os círculos de luz e sombra na madeira dos móveis. Depois saiu para a rua e observou todas as coisas objectivamente.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>M. </i>de Svetlana Bekyarova</b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-62796297822660470382019-05-16T17:52:00.000+01:002019-05-18T10:40:44.492+01:00<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEtIuPOFXEzxqkGWNfY65QAKa477qXtxamP5vVz6FbwXedLwyxkYpGhZLeQVoBLiU2o0gX6zeOV3j_8TvIVbMNwmqP4kewbAZn65D2VLwitJ0jjE8ydEueujfv0ElfbmLtWGfKId1DnE0/s1600/Allan+Wallberg+The+little+bird+with+the+long+tail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="500" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEtIuPOFXEzxqkGWNfY65QAKa477qXtxamP5vVz6FbwXedLwyxkYpGhZLeQVoBLiU2o0gX6zeOV3j_8TvIVbMNwmqP4kewbAZn65D2VLwitJ0jjE8ydEueujfv0ElfbmLtWGfKId1DnE0/s400/Allan+Wallberg+The+little+bird+with+the+long+tail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Once upon a time, a little, little bird, was singing
in the sunshine and then came the cat and asked him, why are you so happy
little, little bird singing in a branch of a big tree? <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>I’m a bird, said he. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Meow, replied the cat, and went away looking for a fish
in the blue lake in that shiny, bright day. And the little, little bird,
whistled to the day, the cat, the lake, the fish, the branch and the big tree. </b></span><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm a bird, said he.</b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>fotografia The little bird with the long tail</i> de Allan Wallberg</b></span></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-32836461690294027112019-04-04T18:40:00.001+01:002019-04-05T08:56:42.028+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOaq-WL2tlZl0fn1g8ELMVon8t7TkbHrbHv1xouVeLS8Oy-56prcQm3PYvlnpkRPvyHoL2McwTndKpdvhcjW6KEnyDHtmRtVSZOiwQicwkgVKXka1sYkyj8AWkRH5eEvwviu_Dt038uJt/s1600/Andi+Halil+The+Flower+of+tail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOaq-WL2tlZl0fn1g8ELMVon8t7TkbHrbHv1xouVeLS8Oy-56prcQm3PYvlnpkRPvyHoL2McwTndKpdvhcjW6KEnyDHtmRtVSZOiwQicwkgVKXka1sYkyj8AWkRH5eEvwviu_Dt038uJt/s400/Andi+Halil+The+Flower+of+tail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>E a rapariga perguntou, emprestas-me a tua cauda para eu fazer um vestido rodado, plissado, que me faça voar. O peixe olhou-a, abriu a boca, soltou quatro bolhas de ar e escondeu-se atrás de uma rocha verde-esmeralda. A rapariga não desistiu e todos os dias encontrava-se com o peixe de cauda de flor e o peixe de tanto a ouvir deixou-se cativar. </b><br />
<b>Uma tarde ela ganhou coragem e esquecendo o vestido rodado e plissado, mergulhou. São agora dois os peixes e uma rocha verde-esmeralda no fundo do mar.</b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Flower of tail</i> de Andi Halil</span></b><br />
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-84027721931522467602019-02-01T18:21:00.000+00:002019-02-01T18:21:53.226+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSazI5ladEEnS26qu8w-ReaGmlyo7EALKgAaiiOTF_FmQtmXKd4HFp867YoanTDQGRzHixzRqdQm6xzH-L3uEmZ_hbuB7dIXFzEwirnyHCt3qj7GpYXGJ8W71rIwIgv67Lx1Kid8xp1tnL/s1600/Svetlana+Bekyarova+Story+of+missing+one....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSazI5ladEEnS26qu8w-ReaGmlyo7EALKgAaiiOTF_FmQtmXKd4HFp867YoanTDQGRzHixzRqdQm6xzH-L3uEmZ_hbuB7dIXFzEwirnyHCt3qj7GpYXGJ8W71rIwIgv67Lx1Kid8xp1tnL/s320/Svetlana+Bekyarova+Story+of+missing+one....jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Falávamos então de outras coisas e eu gostava de te contar da tristeza das árvores no inverno, da neblina que habita os pinheirais e daquela seriedade mansa do meu vestido preto que me ficava tão bem.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Story of missing one</i> de Svetlana Bekyarova</b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-53113079686748336182018-12-21T17:59:00.000+00:002018-12-21T18:36:32.634+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Às vezes pesa-me o inverno, o
pinheiro, o burrinho, a vaca, o menino despido na lapa. A estrela é um pássaro
fiel a voltear sobre a minha cabeça desatenta e ele, pássaro, a chamar-me pelo
nome que eu não sei.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>depression</i> de Barbara</b></span></span></div>
manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-1243913433641326962018-09-24T19:17:00.000+01:002018-09-24T19:17:47.482+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQR_82G1XgfHd3FyAQfrNUxtgTBF6ph-51oK22fHwhY55h_BuL8flJ4-IkqRDYzL88RwnpVKvJLPqYKT8x0nrBqIIhxENmyA3JUHXQYglywY9Iq8N-4uPauu_F0lFcHgUcGmmLaTuhsTW/s1600/Andi+Halil+The+girl+with+the+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="300" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQR_82G1XgfHd3FyAQfrNUxtgTBF6ph-51oK22fHwhY55h_BuL8flJ4-IkqRDYzL88RwnpVKvJLPqYKT8x0nrBqIIhxENmyA3JUHXQYglywY9Iq8N-4uPauu_F0lFcHgUcGmmLaTuhsTW/s640/Andi+Halil+The+girl+with+the+book.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>A rapariga habitava os livros que lia. Umas vezes descansava na página cento e três, outras vezes perdia-se nas entrelinhas.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Pelo meio, levantava a cabeça, ouvia as vozes lá fora, o jogo do avião, da apanhada. Ana-ina-anão, ficas tu, eu não. P</b></span><b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">orque regresso a casa. </b></div>
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<b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The girl with the book </i>de Andi Halil</span></b></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-88317282365144322472018-07-11T19:25:00.000+01:002018-07-11T19:25:22.619+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4BmINXrhjxCa9_yNKTvaKEHzuyjD635-G21PFUflMeVb5E9KOxmcXfpQFrgBR9iOnps3U_M34DYJRv9W-dF-7bvIZbv_qc9ONE6zUdq3fFL1MIj6yBWleykzkU4cjdfDYFxyDksfkS5u/s1600/Ben+Goossens+The+lighthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="500" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4BmINXrhjxCa9_yNKTvaKEHzuyjD635-G21PFUflMeVb5E9KOxmcXfpQFrgBR9iOnps3U_M34DYJRv9W-dF-7bvIZbv_qc9ONE6zUdq3fFL1MIj6yBWleykzkU4cjdfDYFxyDksfkS5u/s400/Ben+Goossens+The+lighthouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Levo-te comigo, disse o peixe. O farol protestou, que
não, o meu lugar é aqui preso às rochas, à entrada dos estuários, nos
promontórios, a iluminar as tempestades e os navios distraídos com as estrelas
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<b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Será, respondeu o peixe-farol. E fez-se ao mar alto com a
cabeça a andar à roda</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>The lighthouse </i>de Ben Goossens</b></span><br />
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-51860039521930458942018-05-28T18:16:00.001+01:002018-05-28T18:16:41.979+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDofdmR3UWouzEPsQ3VjKWul6xC32mIzMQj5HQXCjt-x_3HplEd6W1dNFDyo1l5Ub-yBM2-jUPU392lYaZtHp3sbdFoQsZUT_RA9fLX7gwBI7Q4xz1Tms2DRnu0znKhSTfEOzuZR8OS-J/s1600/Samanta+Fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="500" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDofdmR3UWouzEPsQ3VjKWul6xC32mIzMQj5HQXCjt-x_3HplEd6W1dNFDyo1l5Ub-yBM2-jUPU392lYaZtHp3sbdFoQsZUT_RA9fLX7gwBI7Q4xz1Tms2DRnu0znKhSTfEOzuZR8OS-J/s400/Samanta+Fly.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Quando o tempo aqueceu, o jardineiro construiu-nos um baloiço. Uma tábua pintada
de verde, duas cordas suspensas nos ramos de um plátano. Não era carpinteiro o
jardineiro, mas gostava de nós, dos ramos e dos plátanos. E dos gritos de
alegria lançados para trás e dos pés descalços a tocar as nuvens e agora sou eu
outra vez e mais uma, porque o baloiço é meu e ainda o conservo comigo na
memória dos dias.</b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Fly </i>de Samanta</span></b><br />
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-60772516091327432282018-03-26T19:38:00.001+01:002018-03-26T19:38:40.263+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvxpNh8ljvvrn9-cX5lMNUgoQ_siWfJ1q4haK3YN3T-Tj-CNJr0BVdoAU554BX_oVr3BzjUPpgLtiZ9xfISOci7Qn5TLHsENGtbhh9SCc2NwbXks9M_11k3jKLuqNmI6YvDZVSGWGjwDJ1/s1600/Antonio+Grambone+sem+nome+IV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="500" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvxpNh8ljvvrn9-cX5lMNUgoQ_siWfJ1q4haK3YN3T-Tj-CNJr0BVdoAU554BX_oVr3BzjUPpgLtiZ9xfISOci7Qn5TLHsENGtbhh9SCc2NwbXks9M_11k3jKLuqNmI6YvDZVSGWGjwDJ1/s400/Antonio+Grambone+sem+nome+IV.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eu gostava quando os relógios se estragavam. Os de pulso, que eram aqueles que nos mediam os medos e a pulsação acelerava ou os sonhos, e eles, os relógios de sonho, paravam, perplexos, sem saber como continuar o tempo. E dávamos-lhes corda até quebrar. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Depois íamos à ourivesaria Vilamar e o senhor Mendonça perguntava, então o que foi? não sabemos, </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">respondíamos, </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">porque apenas ele sabia. Era o deus das pequenas coisas o senhor Mendonça. Grande, era aquele olho que nos olhava quando ele levantava a cabeça do relógio partido e dizia feliz, vai dar muito trabalho mas tem arranjo.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>sem nome IV</i>, de Antonio Grambone</span></b></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-37951253414043534902018-02-10T18:09:00.000+00:002018-02-10T18:09:08.553+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Anto</i></b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">(do grego <i>ánthos</i>, flor)</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Falta-me dizer-te quanto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>num meio soneto em meu esperanto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>por esta data te amo tanto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>quanto cabe neste canto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Quanto te amo num pranto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>ao te cobrir com meu manto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>que mais não sei neste espanto</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>poema de<i> <a href="http://a-musica-das-palavras.blogspot.pt/">Jaime Ferreira</a></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>fotografia de<i> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/paulobnogueira">Paulo Nogueira</a></i></b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-33502797727168788442018-01-25T18:41:00.002+00:002018-01-25T18:42:52.932+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_20oAdZmRlR71NepHMF8AyhOGEwgNsgafOtypZPHL1JYYvuITnKSM-iWa9-uky3Q2Bme6u9F8w2holxB0uGXhdkLkJB13n-5Ad5Fv_41dA32WhTig5jEkp_nW9wKoP6f4ohzmf584vlR/s1600/Ben+Goossens+Atlantis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="500" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_20oAdZmRlR71NepHMF8AyhOGEwgNsgafOtypZPHL1JYYvuITnKSM-iWa9-uky3Q2Bme6u9F8w2holxB0uGXhdkLkJB13n-5Ad5Fv_41dA32WhTig5jEkp_nW9wKoP6f4ohzmf584vlR/s400/Ben+Goossens+Atlantis.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Um dia levo a casa.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Na cauda de um peixe, na barbatana dorsal, na peitoral,
talvez.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>As janelas e as portas abertas e o mar do lado de fora a
ondular com as marés.</b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Atlantis</i> de Ben Goossens</b></span><br />
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-31594563431059168642017-12-07T21:10:00.000+00:002017-12-07T21:10:05.969+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Conta, pai. E o pai contava. Era uma vez uma rapariga tão pequenina, tão redondinha, que lhe deram o nome de Maria Ervilha. Dormia numa caixa de fósforos forrada de lã, tomava banho numa concha do mar, brincava com as formigas e os grãos de areia da praia.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>E o cão, pai? onde estava o cão que a guardava? E os pássaros, pai? bicavam na rapariga pequenina e redonda, pai? </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Não bicavam, gostavam dela. Um dia veio um pássaro castanho de asas azuis celeste e levou a Ervilhinha no bico escarlate e ela voou com o pássaro sobre as florestas e os rios, os castelos e as pontes, as cidades e os desertos e o pássaro disse-lhe, agora já sabes como a terra é redonda e bela como tu. A rapariga riu-se e a ave cantou.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>E o cão pai?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Então o pai construiu-lhe um comboio de madeira com cinco carruagens e foram os dois mundo fora procurar um cão que gostasse de ervilhas também.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Estás a falar a sério pai? Estou.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Bedtime stories</i> de Yvette Depaepe</b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-26721486668597473142017-10-22T09:19:00.001+01:002017-10-22T09:19:37.478+01:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDxn_HztIwDLRK0aDont7zO5zulQREv41Vll_7NIPRk5T5qDxYOReUtYbF5TzngPELkEmczRQdKdl4DqLFOl7e6rjMvG9FODn0DyqVVZECV09TlZu-DtOhQrt4YvfFCVQF0RFKku9ot0Y/s1600/Samanta+Silence+must+be+heard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="500" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDxn_HztIwDLRK0aDont7zO5zulQREv41Vll_7NIPRk5T5qDxYOReUtYbF5TzngPELkEmczRQdKdl4DqLFOl7e6rjMvG9FODn0DyqVVZECV09TlZu-DtOhQrt4YvfFCVQF0RFKku9ot0Y/s400/Samanta+Silence+must+be+heard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Qualquer coisa a arranhar a garganta, um espinho num
dedo, um pico no pé. A cinza depois do medo, o grito do pássaro queimado,
<i>foi-se a luz dos meus olhos</i>, disse ela. E foi a coisa mais triste e mais bela
que eu ouvi e não sei se todos ouviram e o que é que isso lhes fez ao coração,
mas o meu cobriu-se de vidros e depois de penas e muito depois, de claridade.</b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Silence must be heard</i> de Samanta</span></b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-1820507375872199002017-10-05T21:07:00.000+01:002017-10-05T21:07:55.485+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmFqpPgOBqtUv75R26sLgAobTS-fDGkE0fDTK9sGeB-uqGm53SUhExEIup2WInxgoqIYdNGR4HiwSYVA3z1J2SDWqXtPbCmrh40Fp5XiHXJ1SyU2ckmrZKo24H-Qp7N8cEifJWNcJ-B15/s1600/Alicjia+O%2527Sullivan+....+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="337" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmFqpPgOBqtUv75R26sLgAobTS-fDGkE0fDTK9sGeB-uqGm53SUhExEIup2WInxgoqIYdNGR4HiwSYVA3z1J2SDWqXtPbCmrh40Fp5XiHXJ1SyU2ckmrZKo24H-Qp7N8cEifJWNcJ-B15/s400/Alicjia+O%2527Sullivan+....+II.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Tomou-nos esta secura temporã a
adiar a partida dos pássaros. As folhas velhas arrendam vestidos ainda de seda
e não de lã e a lua cheia alumbra a madrugada. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>Se vier a chuva fresca, que
venha e encha os canteiros e os cântaros, se cântaros houver a musicar os telhados e as
casas.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>...II</i> de Alicjia O' Sullivan</b></span><br />
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2351733661267429956.post-18631642006039920042017-08-19T21:20:00.002+01:002017-08-20T08:48:55.334+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Em agosto crescem ao-deus-dará as plantas do jardim. E porque umas vezes deus dá e outras tira, morreu hoje um pássaro na estrada de asfalto. Desprotegido, deslocado, não era ali o ninho do pássaro.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Foi assim que outro pássaro tomou o seu lugar e a noite apenas escureceu um pouco mais.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Hairdo created by the garden</i> de Alicja O' Sullivan </b></span></div>
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manuela baptistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09767789361801161039noreply@blogger.com