La Cassaria

Corisca- Eu bem sei o que Carídoro me prometeu tantas vezes, e tu sabes o que Erófilo te prometeu a ti. E quanto nos amam, igualmente o sabemos.

Eulália- Bem sei que o prometeram; mas não sei se querem manter as promessas; nem sei se nos amam, nem tu o sabes, pois não lhes vês a alma. Só sabemos o seguinte: que nos deveriam amar.

Ludovico Ariosto

A menina que nunca chorava

Para a Torey com muito Amor

Todos os outros vieram

Tentaram fazer-me rir

Brincaram comigo

Algumas vezes para rir e outras a sério

E depois partiram

Abandonando-me nas ruínas das brincadeiras

E eu não sabia quais eram a sério.

Quais eram para rir e

Vi-me sozinha com os ecos dos risos

Que não eram os meus.

E depois tu chegaste

Com os teus modos estranhos

Nem sempre humanos

E fizeste-me chorar

E não pareceste importar-te que chorasse.

Disseste que as brincadeiras tinham acabado

E esperaste

Até que as minhas lágrimas se transformassem

Em alegria.

Sheila, 6 anos

(Torey Hayden)

Apeteceu-me

Acima de tudo, na vida, temos a necessidade de alguém que nos obrigue a realizar aquilo de que somos capazes. É este o papel da amizade.

Emerson

(Sou tão feliz.)

E ao Anoitecer

E ao anoitecer adquires nome de ilha ou de vulcão

deixas viver sobre a pele uma criança de lume

e na fria lava da noite ensinas ao corpo

a paciência o amor o abandono das palavras

o silêncio

e a difícil arte da melancolia.

Al Berto

V for Vendetta

"I don't know who you are. Please believe. There is no way I can convince you that this is not one of their tricks. But I don't care. I am me, and I don't know who you are, but I love you.
I have a pencil. A little one they did not find. I am a women. I hid it inside me. Perhaps I won't be able to write again, so this is a long letter about my life. It is the only autobiography I have ever written and oh God I'm writing it on toilet paper.
I was born in Nottingham in 1957, and it rained a lot. I passed my eleven plus and went to girl's Grammar. I wanted to be an actress.
I met my first girlfriend at school. Her name was Sara. She was fourteen and I was fifteen but we were both in Miss. Watson's class. Her wrists. Her wrists were beautiful. I sat in biology class, staring at the picket rabbit foetus in its jar, listening while Mr. Hird said it was an adolescent phase that people outgrew. Sara did. I didn't.
In 1976 I stopped pretending and took a girl called Christine home to meet my parents. A week later I enrolled at drama college. My mother said I broke her heart.
But it was my integrity that was important. Is that so selfish? It sells for so little, but it's all we have left in this place. It is the very last inch of us. But within that inch we are free.
London. I was happy in London. In 1981 I played Dandini in Cinderella. My first rep work. The world was strange and rustling and busy, with invisible crowds behind the hot lights and all that breathless glamour. It was exciting and it was lonely. At nights I'd go to the Crew-Ins or one of the other clubs. But I was stand-offish and didn't mix easily. I saw a lot of the scene, but I never felt comfortable there. So many of them just wanted to be gay. It was their life, their ambition. And I wanted more than that.
Work improved. I got small film roles, then bigger ones. In 1986 I starred in "The Salt Flats." It pulled in the awards but not the crowds. I met Ruth while working on that. We loved each other. We lived together and on Valentine's Day she sent me roses and oh God, we had so much. Those were the best three years of my life.
In 1988 there was the war, and after that there were no more roses. Not for anybody.
In 1992 they started rounding up the gays. They took Ruth while she was out looking for food. Why are they so frightened of us? They burned her with cigarette ends and made her give them my name. She signed a statement saying I'd seduced her. I didn't blame her. God, I loved her. I didn't blame her.
But she did. She killed herself in her cell. She couldn't live with betraying me, with giving up that last inch. Oh Ruth. . . .
They came for me. They told me that all of my films would be burned. They shaved off my hair and held my head down a toilet bowl and told jokes about lesbians. They brought me here and gave me drugs. I can't feel my tongue anymore. I can't speak.
The other gay women here, Rita, died two weeks ago. I imagine I'll die quite soon. It's strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses and I apologized to nobody.
I shall die here. Every last inch of me shall perish. Except one.
An inch. It's small and it's fragile and it's the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it, or sell it, or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.
I don't know who you are. Or whether you're a man or a woman. I may never see you or cry with you or get drunk with you. But I love you. I hope that you escape this place. I hope that the world turns and that things get better, and that one day people have roses again. I wish I could kiss you.

Valerie
X"

( escrito por Alan Moore)

Les amants

Posso escrever os versos mais tristes esta noite.

Escrever, por exemplo:

"A noite está estrelada, e tiritam, azuis, os astros lá ao longe".

O vento da noite gira no céu e canta.

Posso escrever os versos mais tristes esta noite.

Eu amei-a e por vezes ela também me amou.

Em noites como esta tive-a em meus braços.

Beijei-a tantas vezes sob o céu infinito.

Ela amou-me, por vezes eu também a amava.

Como não ter amado os seus grandes olhos fixos.

Posso escrever os versos mais tristes esta noite.

Pensar que não a tenho.Sentir que já a perdi.

Ouvir a noite imensa, mais imensa sem ela.
E o verso cai na alma como no pasto o orvalho.

Importa lá que o meu amor não pudesse guardá-la.

A noite está estrelada e ela não está comigo.

Isso é tudo.Ao longe alguém canta. Ao longe.

A minha alma não se contenta com havê-la perdido.

Como para chegá-la a mim o meu olhar procura-a.

O meu coração procura-a, ela não está comigo.

A mesma noite que faz branquejar as mesmas árvores.

Nós dois, os de então, já não somos os mesmos.

Já não a amo, é verdade, mas tanto que a amei.

Esta voz buscava o vento para tocar-lhe o ouvido.

De outro. Será de outro. Como antes dos meus beijos.

A voz, o corpo claro. Os seus olhos infinitos.

Já não a amo, é verdade, mas talvez a ame ainda.

É tão curto o amor, tão longo o esquecimento.

Porque em noites como esta tive-a em meus braços,

a minha alma não se contenta por havê-la perdido.

Embora seja a última dor que ela me causa,

e estes sejam os últimos versos que lhe escrevo.

Pablo Neruda