Falhamos

                                                                                                     Falhamos, sempre falhamos.

                                                                                                    A nossa sina é falhar.

                                                                                                    Prestamos culto a palavras que

                                                                                                    Não chegam para ensinar.

                                                                                                   Saudade é um fardo pesado,

                                                                                                    Difícil de carregar.

                                                                                                   O que se vê no fim da estrada?

                                                                                                   Eram pedras, mais nada.

                                                                                                  Quem parte já não faz parte de

                                                                                                  Ninguém, e a palavra saudade

                                                                                                  Passa longe, muito longe da

                                                                                                  verdade.

                                                                                                 É  prima da solidão, o que parte

                                                                                                sabe bem o gosto amargo que tem.

                                                                                                E à volta, se voltar, nem mais

                                                                                                Nacionalidade tem.

                                                                                               Em casa, naquele cantinho, sente-se

                                                                                              um estranho no ninho.

                                                                                               Aí então se vê bem o peso que a

                                                                                               Saudade tem.

                                                                                               Não tem o peso das pedras, do ferro.

                                                                                              Pesa menos que um tição. Olhe lá, é bem

                                                                                              capaz de ser mais leve do que o algodão.

                                                                                              Que verdade há nisso então?

                                                                                                                                 Lita Moniz