Muhammad Ali (1942-2016)

 Ali’s Right Fist, Thomas Hoepker, Chicago, 1966

Eu tinha a grande saúde de não perceber coisa / nenhuma

Crocheted Wire Anatomy, Anne Mondo

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high
zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

— Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est, 1918

Nenhum aço perfura o coração humano tão friamente como um ponto final no momento certo

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.

— W. B. Yeats, Easter 1916, Collected in Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921)

A morte pode afogar-se no seu próprio riso

Thou hast made us for Thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in Thee.

― Augustine of Hippo, The Confessions of Saint Augustine

De ti para mim a verdade pode ser idêntica, mas varia, ao menos, nas pulsações por minuto

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and

we will wait
and
wait

in that space.

― Charles Bukowski