Algumas histórias muito pequenas em tudo

inclusive na moral

I

Do escuro em que vivia o mundo, mais não fugia que um frenesim de asas golpeando o ar.

Levado pela aflição do instinto, o melro seguiu em frente, só se dando conta que atingira o fim do negro, o limiar da luz, pelo pasmo do repentino cintilar.

Temente, voltou atrás. No breu que lhe cobre o corpo brilha agora a mácula de sol que lhe vestiu o bico.

II

O gato olhou o pássaro e pensou: “se te comer nunca mais cantas; mas eu tenho fome e foi assim que nos criaram: tu para cantares, eu para te comer”.

Atiradas pelo vento, das verdes e viçosas urtigas que bordejam o muro da velha horta pendem ainda, inertes, algumas penas cinzentas e castanhas .

Roído pelo remorso, o gato enche agora os fins de tarde com um alegre chilrear.

III

Correu as persianas e ligou a luz. Intimidade forçada mas necessária para indagar a razão do doce calor que sentia subir-lhe pelas pernas nuas, abrigadas na comprida batina que usava sob os paramentos com que dizia missa nas manhãs de domingo.

A custo, dobrou-se o suficiente para agarrar a sotaina de ambos os lados, junto à bainha, e subiu-a, deixando a nu os joelhos:

“Diabo!” Gritou o padre; “Miau” respondeu o gato.

IV

Abriu a janela à luz amarela do dia, tímida no frio quente da manhã. Sorveu a primavera numa única golfada aflita, espasmódica, num staccato involuntário do diafragma.

Do estrépito que ressuou no quarto e vibrou nas vidraças, guardou  a fugaz vertigem na urgência do alívio.

Olhou embaraçado o espelho e notou que teria de comprar lenços!

Some stories that are very short

 in text and morals

I

Besides a frenzy of wings cutting through the air, nothing rose from the darkness that consumed the world.

Driven by the anguish of instinct, the blackbird kept on going, realizing it had reached the edge of the blackness, the threshold of light, by the flicker of the sudden scintillation.

In fear it turned back.

The gloom that covers its body  is now stained by the imprint of sun that dresses its beak.

 II

The cat eyed the bird and thought: “if I eat you, you’ll never sing again; but I am hungry, and that is the purpose we were created for: you, to sing, I, to eat you”.

Blown by the wind, dangling from the green and  flourishing nettles that grow by the base of the wall at the edge of  the vegetable garden, a few  lifeless  grey and brownish feathers can still be seen.

Driven by deep regret , the cat now fills the final moments of the afternoon with a joyful  twittering.

III

He shut the venetian blinds and turned on the light. A forced but needed intimacy so as to question why the sweet warmth he felt rising up through his bare legs, covered by the long cassock he wore under the canonicals in which he said mass, on all Sunday mornings.

At cost, he bent over just enough to grab both sides of the cassock by the hem and  to pull it up, uncovering both knees:

“Hell!” cried the priest; “Meow” answered the cat.

IV

He opened the window up unto the yellow light of the day that shone shyly in the warm morning coldness.  He gulped  spring in a single urgent, spasmodic,  sip  with an involuntary staccato of the diaphragm.

From the loud noise that echoed through the room, vibrating in the window panes, he kept but the  sudden vertigo of urgent relief.

Feeling embarrassed, he looked into the mirror and made a mental note that he would have to buy paper handkerchiefs.