Leitura Matinal -46

Figo & Amigos, Concertos Live Aid, promessas
dos G-8. Vamos avançando sob o signo da Caridade.
Ao contrário de muita Gente que estimo e respeito,
nunca levantarei um dedo contra estas iniciativas.
São desajeitadas e procuram publicidade fácil? Sejam;
procurem. Meio expedito de aliviar consciências
perante o sofrimento alheio? Pois aliviem-se. O que
conta é que, por uma vez, a piedade, traduzindo-se
na Ajuda - que não só na Oração -, não é dirigida a
próprias e tantas vezes imaginadas maleitas, mas
a agonias bem reais.
Caridade! Em se tratando de tão Grande Virtude, o meu
melhor contributo, aqui, será não martirizar mais o
Leitor com paleio de minha lavra. Fique pois com
George Crabbe:

THE PARISH WORKHOUSE

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish-poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There where the putrid vapours, flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;-
These children dwell who know no parents´ care;
Parents, who know no children´s love, dwell there!
Heartbroken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more childhood fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot and the madman gay.
Here too the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the scenes of grieve to grieve...
Say ye, oppress´d by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who press the downy couch while slaves advance
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure;
How would ye bear in real paine to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that´s wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between;
Save one dull pane, that, coarsley patch´d gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o´erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.