Amanhã é dia de passear por hospitais com a santa cá de baixo. Por isso não passarei por aqui.
Antecipo o poema das sextas feiras, mas não o farei sem primeiro lembrar Hiroxima e Nagasáqui, nos 70 anos do opróbrio que lhes foi imposto.
A necessidade de lançar duas bombas, a segunda três dias depois da outra, tem sido posta em causa mesmo por muitos empedernidos defensores da "solução final" da Guerra do Pacífico, os quais consideravam que se devia dar ao Japão a hipótese de se render depois da primeira bomba atómica ter sido lançada sobre Hiroxima.
A explicação oficial era a de que se devia provar ao Japão que os USA tinham capacidade industrial para produzir bombas destas em cadeia. Que Hiroxima não se tratava de um caso isolado.
À conta desta ideia morreram mais 80 000 pessoas.
Para quem se interessa por esta página odiosa da história da humanidade, podem ler mais aqui :
http://blog.nuclearsecrecy.com/2013/08/09/why-nagasaki/
De um grande poeta americano, Walt Whitman, aqui deixo a "Lamentação para Dois Veteranos", pai e filho enterrados na mesma campa, no mesmo dia:
The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath,
On the pavement here--and there beyond, it is looking,
Down a new-made double grave.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house tops, ghastly phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles; 10
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums,
Strikes me through and through.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them. 20
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the day-light o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd;
('Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.)
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! 30
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath,
On the pavement here--and there beyond, it is looking,
Down a new-made double grave.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house tops, ghastly phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles; 10
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums,
Strikes me through and through.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them. 20
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the day-light o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd;
('Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.)
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! 30
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
Walt Whitman
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