Ad nauseum

Há dias em que acordo com uma música a martelar-me o juízo (normalmente a pior possível), ouvida sabe-se lá onde, trauteando-a desde que acordo até que me deito.

Outros dias são frases, outros dias são poemas que me perseguem.

Hoje, não me saíu da cabeça este fragmento de um poema de O. Wilde. A ver se o afugento, partilhando a parte que me acompanhou all day long:

(...) Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

The Ballad of the Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde.

P.S. XÔOOOOOO! Vai-te embora...