Stories of Paraná - Hand

Stories of Paraná - Hand

Hand
Nilson Monteiro

Landed on the desk beside me.
Thick.
You could see where that would have come Butterfly creased, tired perhaps?
What were those lands that housed its fold, almost burgundy, nails, erosions carved into his flesh?
The hand did not ask, neither will I explain anything.
Landed indifferent.
Calluses here and there, suggesting lives.
With purple streams in their lines.
Just landed. He stayed.
He drummed his fingers back and forth on the counter, as the free space to enjoy their existence.
But not advanced nor retreated.
Stopped.
A smell geographic, Paraná, who knows?
Stop, the five petals Butterfly, created more excitement, fiction.
Instigated.
Inspired.
Ploughing, harvesting, take the corn to the barn, derriçar coffee, caring for the horses, stroking his mane, pulling water from the well, splitting wood, who knows that labor butterfly and your fingers nail bereaved? Or who can advance the destinations that hand still plans? Perhaps rake the ground to sprout it green? Perhaps burying a former life? Nothing said.
Not questioned.
Stop.
Does not the executor of beautiful symphonies, poetry downing the counter before causing excitement for theaters and operas? No, it was a fine hand, well treated, caprichadas the best nail salons and soaked balms.
But who said that only those able to perform the works of the immortals, or rather compose new sonic delights? Where is the wise man who proves that poetry can only be distilled without hand calluses, smelly and intellectuals?
Yes or no.
Nothing seemed to hurt the patience and sensitivity of the character.
Time or another flight lifted soon, but soon after espalmava up on the counter, oblivious to my rant: I could not be the instrument of a precise scalpel, operating the pains of men, women and children? Or swift instrument of a sportsman, accustomed to fame? Or even
the funnel of information, be cleaned up in neurosis of the keys of a machine Copywriting?
There was hair on it, yes.
Could be a sheep shearer, noble and sad worker who discovers here to cover there.
Or even a genius of the mortar, master the quantities of cement and sand and water and bricks to build houses, buildings, bridges etc..
Yes, it could, why not be a concern banking, dealing all day with millions and millions of cruises and their salaries at the end of the month ...
This time the gesture was wider, time consuming.
She drew parables in the air, leaving the coldness of the counter.
Risen, fallen.
Rose, fell, heron crazy, sprawled on the floor dry counter.
Heron, not butterfly.
Butterfly is more childish, like most children, is more acute, play with your eyes and remember the existence of the woods, the woods, the gardens, the sticky mud, rivers ...
Butterfly.
As landed, took flight. The tour was again cold, cold, impersonal.

Nilson Monteiro is a journalist and poet.


Source: Stories of Paraná, Brasil.