The Epic of Ushika at the 3100-mile race

The Epic of Ushika at the 3100-mile race

This is a short or long story
About a a Hermit brave and a Rishi sweet
from Rig Veda of now or yore
Who were walking down the street.
Most precisely,
They were walking down nigh
Grand Central Parkway,
just behind Thomas Edison High.
One seemed to be running,
But that is just from a distance wide;
A savvy onlooker will quickly
Ascertain the wanning-ralking stride.
Anyway in lack of topic and alms
For usual conversation or filmscreen
They wandered surreal realms
Of rubber, skin salves and ice cream
Delving deep into the world
Of perilous mobile surfing
Credit card issuing on hold
Hopes for proper shoes vanishing
Realms of blister, and of chafe,
And of sun and concrete hard
Ever lightened by valiant Max
The Hermit’s squire and bard,
To safeguard the promise and duty
Of now, the Race of Eternity
Halfway into the darkest dungeon
Also brings the Hermit one,
The Worshipper of Dawn,
Halfway into the Light Divine
But… nowhere the end at hand!
Well, Tis´ not for one to know where
He will get, for one thus surrendered
Is rather taken somewhere, doesn´t go.
Oh, yet!,
The one chosen now strides aloft
The hope of completeness soft
The goal seemingly unattainable
Suddenly beckons the able
For what Grace one is due in ruth
Tis’ not for one to know
Grace is swift and strong, its truth
Alighting on sweated brow
By hearkening to the call
One was already destined
To the heirloom divine:
Guru´s Divine Love for all,
The very end of all in All.
—————————————-
from the book:
Tales from the Vedas: the Rishi and the Hermit
Banana-Leaf Publications 13700 B.C.

O Pavão – crônica de Rubem Braga

Eu considerei a glória de um pavão ostentando o esplendor de suas cores; é um luxo imperial. Mas andei lendo livros, e descobri que aquelas cores todas não existem na pena do pavão. Não há pigmentos. O que há são minúsculas bolhas dágua em que a luz se fragmenta, como em um prisma. O pavão é um arco-íris de plumas.

Eu considerei que este é o luxo do grande artista, atingir o máximo de matizes com o mínimo de elementos. De água e luz ele faz seu esplendor; seu grande mistério é a simplicidade.

Considerei, por fim, que assim é o amor, oh! minha amada; de tudo que ele suscita e esplende e estremece e delira em mim existem apenas meus olhos recebendo a luz de teu olhar. Ele me cobre de glórias e me faz magnífico.

-Rubem Braga, Crônica