Ela está aqui

Passarinhos cantando
O edredon me sufoca
Será um sonho?

Abro os olhos, lentamente
O sol, o céu azul
É um sonho.

Me livro da coberta aos chutes
Calor, muito calor
Onde está o meu shorts?

Saio pelas ruas abismada
Uma árvore inteiramente verde
Será que finalmente...?

Sinto uma felicidade me dominar
É isso, é ela
A primavera está aqui.

_______________________________________________________

« With the fishermen and the life on the river, the beautiful barges with their own life on board, the tugs with their smokestacks that folded back to pass under the bridges, pulling a tow of barges, the great plain trees on the stone banks of the river, the elms and sometimes the poplars, I could never be lonely along the river. With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring comingo each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen, When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.

In those days, though, the spring always came finally ; but it was frightening that it had nearly failed. »

Excerto do livro A Moveable Feast de Ernest Hemingway