<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<?xml-stylesheet type="text/xsl" media="screen" href="/~d/styles/atom10full.xsl"?><?xml-stylesheet type="text/css" media="screen" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~d/styles/itemcontent.css"?><feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:openSearch="http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearch/1.1/" xmlns:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0" xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0" gd:etag="W/&quot;CkIAQ3c8eyp7ImA9WhRVEEo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9140583779832648264</id><updated>2012-01-08T22:55:42.973-02:00</updated><title>Escritos Possíveis - João Paulo Martorano Salvador</title><subtitle type="html">Este blogue é um hebdomadário. Um espaço dedicado à literatura regional catarinense. Um blogue para escritos diversos e possíveis.

Bem-vindo a todos</subtitle><link rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/" /><link rel="next" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2" /><author><name>João Paulo Martorano Salvador</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18343817080960964941</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="24" height="32" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hm97uxjlyrU/SsVR37Uwb7I/AAAAAAAAAAs/PYdZzlaMSas/S220/DSC01155.JPG" /></author><generator version="7.00" uri="http://www.blogger.com">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>116</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador" /><feedburner:info uri="escritospossveis-joopaulomartoranosalvador" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkIAQ3czeCp7ImA9WhRVEEo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9140583779832648264.post-7424896385634306591</id><published>2012-01-08T22:53:00.002-02:00</published><updated>2012-01-08T22:55:42.980-02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-08T22:55:42.980-02:00</app:edited><title>O nascimento</title><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/feeds/7424896385634306591/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2012/01/o-nascimento.html#comment-form" title="0 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/7424896385634306591?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/7424896385634306591?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~3/42hsjkF5kLY/o-nascimento.html" title="O nascimento" /><author><name>João Paulo Martorano Salvador</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18343817080960964941</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="24" height="32" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hm97uxjlyrU/SsVR37Uwb7I/AAAAAAAAAAs/PYdZzlaMSas/S220/DSC01155.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><content type="html">

Naquele
domingo a filha de João Antônio e Maria da Graça nasceu. Veio ao mundo
naturalmente, sem ajuda de parteira nem de auxílio médico, apenas na presença
de seu pai e de sua mãe.

¨


João Antônio foi até a prateleira e pegou uns panos limpos.
Súbito lembrou-se da água evaporando no fogão. Verteu então a água fervente da
chaleira em uma bacia de metal toda torta pelo uso. Tornou a encher a 
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João
Antônio saiu do quarto e foi até o fogão verificar se o fogo ainda estava
aceso. Para sua tristeza, estava já apagado. Remexeu nas cinzas e uma brasa
cintilou. Catou uns gravetos e umas grimpas na caixa que fica atrás do fogão e
juntou tudo dentro do mesmo de modo a formarem uma espécie de cabana. Riscou um
fósforo, mas o nervosismo fez com que o palito se partisse. Tentou novamente.
Desta 
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Maria
da Graça sentiu os primeiros sintomas do parto no início daquela manhã de
domingo. Gritou pelo marido, mas não obteve resposta. João Antônio, como de
costume, saíra cedo para o campo logo após a ordenha e de ter tratado as
galinhas.


Era o fim do inverno e os dias estavam cada vez mais longos.
Mas o frio ainda insistia em continuar. As primeiras flores do velho ipê só esperavam
os dias 
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João
Antônio levantou-se. No ato, sentiu uma fisgada na coluna. Com ambas as mãos
postas em suas costas, ensaiou um alongamento meio que por impulso. “Também, dormi
nesse cepo mais duro que trote de petiço manco, bem feito!” – esconjurou-se por
ter passado parte da noite na cozinha. Caminhou na direção do quarto. A casa está
ainda escura, pois o sol ainda tardaria a apontar no horizonte. 
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No
forro da casa, o gambá move-se de um lado a outro causando um barulho surdo. “Tenho
de dá um jeito nesse desgracido” – pensou João Antônio enquanto reforça o fogo
com uns pedaços de lenha seca. Depois, sentou-se no cepo ao canto da cozinha e
fecha os olhos. Está visivelmente cansado pela noite mal dormida. Maria da
Graça também dormiu um sono agitado. “A coisa é capaz de ser pra hoje...” –

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João
Antônio sentiu um calafrio percorrer-lhe o corpo. Esfregou as mãos uma na outra
para espantar o frio e depois, como se desse um abraço a si próprio, esfregou
os braços. “Tá fria!”, murmurou. Dirigiu-se para a cozinha. Sentia fome. A
ansiedade roubou-lhe o sono causando-lhe o apetite. O interior da casa estava
escuro. Somente um ou outro raio da luz do luar penetrava pelas frinchas das

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Aquela
noite de sábado para domingo foi longa e fria. Um vento constante assoviava lá
fora fazendo com que os galhos do velho ipê batessem nas paredes da casa. No
céu, cheio de estrelas, as poucas nuvens passavam ligeiras e a lua boiava
solene e tranquila por sobre elas. João Antônio dormiu um sono salpicado.

Ao seu lado, Maria Valéria, volta e meia, gemia e
ajeitava-se na cama dura de colchão
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João
Antônio pôs-se a reavivar a brasa com um graveto. Reforçou o fogo com dois
pedaços de lenha. Sentou-se à mesa onde o esperava um pedaço de pão de milho
que a mulher havia preparado há uns três dias. O homem comeu, absorto, o seu
pedaço de pão.

“Vou enjambrar um berço com uns pedaços de pau que têm lá no
galpão...”

“Ah, é boa mesmo... pois eu acho que não passa de já-hoje...
tô com uns 
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João Antônio voltou ao trabalho no campo. No
caminho, ia pensando na mulher e em construir ou improvisar um berço para a
criança que estava por nascer. Ainda não sabia se seria guri ou uma menina.
Trabalhou o resto da tarde, juntou suas ferramentas e se preparou para regressar
a casa.

Enquanto o dono roçava o
campo, Campeão permaneceu deitado sob a sombra da grande timbaúva. Assim que o João
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Tio Guinas levanta-se e dirige-se até
o fogão à lenha pegar a chaleira, onde a água ferve. Enche a cuia e ajeita a
bomba da melhor maneira. “E le digo
mais, meu afilhado, se não nasceu na mudança da lua, então vai ser só pra depois
que mudar de novo pra lua nova, daqui uns dois ou três dias...”

Tio Guinas fala de
Maria da Graça, mulher de João Antônio, que está prestes a ganhar o primeiro
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João
Antônio descalça as velhas botas e entra com os pés descalços. A casa não
difere muito da sua, apenas mais envelhecida. Dependuradas na parede, somente
umas velhas esporas de prata, um arreador com cabo esculpido em madeira fazendo
alusão a uma cabeça equina, um chapéu de aba larga, barbicacho, uma imagem da
crucificação de Cristo e mais alguns petrechos espalhados pelos pregos.

Tio 
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Tio
Guinas é homem do campo e sabedor das coisas. Conhece as coisas do tempo e da
terra. Nunca frequentou escola. Sabe ler as estrelas, a lua, o sol, o vento, o
comportamento dos animais e das pessoas. Tudo o que sabe, aprendeu com a vida,
reparando nela.

O velho coronel Francisco, de quem muitos suspeitam que seja
filho, foi quem o ensinou algumas letras, mas mal e mal escreve o próprio nome,
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Tio
Guinas gosta de ficar numa roda de chimarrão com os mais moços e contar os seus
causos e lendas da sua vida e da dos outros. Acrescenta sempre algo a mais nas
suas narrativas, pois quem conta um conto aumenta um ponto, como se diz por
estas bandas. Os ouvintes ouvem com atenção redobrada as histórias dos tempos
de outrora. O velho fala pausadamente e com o palavreado típico da região
serrana
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Depois
de pouco mais de meia hora de caminhada, avistou ao longe o rancho do tio
Guinas. Um fio de fumaça saía pela chaminé do casebre. Sinal de que há gente na
morada. A casa, vista assim de longe, parece incorporada à paisagem a sua
volta. Já tomou a feição do mato e das árvores em derredor. A madeira, que já
sofreu a ação e os efeitos da pátina do tempo, mais parece um tronco de uma
grande 
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Com
o sol já a pino, João Antônio regressou a casa para o almoço, onde Maria da
Graça o esperava, com a barriga, enorme, de quase nove meses, e pronta para
rebentar a qualquer momento. O prato do dia é o de quase sempre: feijão-preto
com linguiça e um pouco de farinha. Uma mesa farta, apesar das carências de
tantas outras coisas, como luz elétrica e água encanada.

João termina de comer, 
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Ao
chegar aos campos da encosta, depois de meia hora de caminhada, João Antônio foi
direito à grande timbaúva, onde havia deixado no dia anterior, em uma cavidade
do tronco da velha árvore, o machado, a enxada, a foice, a pá e o serrote, para
não ter de ficar carregando peso em vão.

Sentou-se ao pé da árvore para descansar um pouco da
caminhada e logo depois deu início à longa jornada do dia. O
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João Antônio segue o seu caminho
pensando na vida e falando alto consigo mesmo. Seus passos quebram o pasto
congelado pela geada. Da sua boca sai um vapor, devido ao intenso frio. Seus
pés estão gelados e o vento arde-lhe o rosto e as mãos.

Pára um instante e
tira da orelha um crioulo. Acende-o, tapando o fogo com a mão esquerda, que
forma uma concha para tapar o vento. Olha para o se 
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O
cachorro Campeão segue o dono, que com o seu facão na cintura e a guaiaca a
tiracolo, dirige-se para a encosta da invernada grande, nas terras do coronel
Osório. Vai arrancar as vassouras secas que tomam conta do campo. Já aproveita
para fazer um pouco de lenha.

Esse é um dos serviços que ele presta ao coronel Osório. João
Antônio é um dos posteiros da Fazenda Monte Alto. O coronel cedeu o 
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João
Antônio soltou a vaca brasina e a cria no potreiro e dirigiu-se para casa, onde
a mulher o esperava com a cara ainda inchada do sono mal dormido. O café recém
passado estava posto na velha mesa carcomida pelo tempo e pelo uso. Apesar do
incômodo da enorme barriga, Maria da Graça não se entregava à preguiça e
dedicava-se aos afazeres caseiros com muito afinco.

“Buenas! Como é que tá o 
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Na chaleira, em cima do fogão à lenha, a água começa a ferver. João Antônio preparou o chimarrão e sentou-se no cepo junto ao cão, que olhou o dono com um olhar de submissão e suspirou profundamente, como se estivesse em plena paz consigo. Alguns instantes depois, o cão já estava sonhando e soltando gritinhos agudos e ritmados. Parecia lutar contra algum preá ou tatu que costuma caçar quando a 
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João Antônio sentou-se na beira da cama, procurou com os pés tateantes as alpargatas e passou a mão direita pelos cabelos desgrenhados. Olhou de soslaio para o vulto da mulher que ainda ressonava. Suspirou fundo. Estava preocupado com a gravidez da esposa. O nascimento da criança era esperado para aqueles dias do final do inverno. O ventre da futura mãe estava já bem pronunciado.Era pouco mais 
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&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/hJaYWsIoeZHpA7_Sz0iKuTM-1HU/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/hJaYWsIoeZHpA7_Sz0iKuTM-1HU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~4/XI86TFoGaq8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/08/o-alvorecer.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkQNRng5cSp7ImA9WhdQEUo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9140583779832648264.post-5463844749638477267</id><published>2011-08-12T09:03:00.001-03:00</published><updated>2011-08-12T15:39:57.629-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-08-12T15:39:57.629-03:00</app:edited><title>Uma resoluçao</title><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/feeds/5463844749638477267/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/08/uma-resolucao.html#comment-form" title="0 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/5463844749638477267?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/5463844749638477267?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~3/nPqvvGnWR_0/uma-resolucao.html" title="Uma resoluçao" /><author><name>João Paulo Martorano Salvador</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18343817080960964941</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="24" height="32" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hm97uxjlyrU/SsVR37Uwb7I/AAAAAAAAAAs/PYdZzlaMSas/S220/DSC01155.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><content type="html">Quase todos os dias, João Antônio cata gravetos e grimpas no capão de trás da sede da fazenda Monte Alto para facilitar a vida de Maria da Graça. O rapaz dedica-se totalmente à moça. Faz isso por amor e afeto.Os dois quase nunca trocam palavras entre si. Apenas alguns olhares furtivos e de soslaio. Uns sorrisos acanhados e sem motivo aparente, o que os outros acham estranho. Seu Juca, o pai de 
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&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/LxUKpGJ1lW1H5zGNx9VaTvi0peY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/LxUKpGJ1lW1H5zGNx9VaTvi0peY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~4/nPqvvGnWR_0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/08/uma-resolucao.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DE8HRX07fip7ImA9WhdRFUk.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9140583779832648264.post-677691164838280804</id><published>2011-08-05T09:20:00.000-03:00</published><updated>2011-08-05T09:20:34.306-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-08-05T09:20:34.306-03:00</app:edited><title>Maria da Graça</title><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/feeds/677691164838280804/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/08/maria-da-graca_05.html#comment-form" title="0 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/677691164838280804?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/677691164838280804?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~3/FFAVGcmqaLo/maria-da-graca_05.html" title="Maria da Graça" /><author><name>João Paulo Martorano Salvador</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18343817080960964941</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="24" height="32" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hm97uxjlyrU/SsVR37Uwb7I/AAAAAAAAAAs/PYdZzlaMSas/S220/DSC01155.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><content type="html">
Maria da Graça está na cozinha preparando a mesa para o café da manhã dos patrões, o cel. Osório e sua família. No fogão à lenha, o fogo está aceso e a chaleira começa a chiar. Enquanto espera a água ferver, prepara a cuia para o mate. Maria da Graça gosta de matear logo nas primeiras horas do dia. Adquiriu o hábito com o seu pai, o seu Juca.  A moça gosta dessa hora da manhã, pois é quando fica
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&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/D34vavoDfnd36O42cBe276KnjT8/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/D34vavoDfnd36O42cBe276KnjT8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~4/FFAVGcmqaLo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/08/maria-da-graca_05.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CUQNRHY6fyp7ImA9WhdSGUk.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9140583779832648264.post-4944985104401865191</id><published>2011-07-29T09:43:00.000-03:00</published><updated>2011-07-29T09:43:15.817-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-07-29T09:43:15.817-03:00</app:edited><title>O homem do espelho</title><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/feeds/4944985104401865191/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/07/o-homem-do-espelho.html#comment-form" title="0 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/4944985104401865191?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/4944985104401865191?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~3/DtkTFrW_iGc/o-homem-do-espelho.html" title="O homem do espelho" /><author><name>João Paulo Martorano Salvador</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18343817080960964941</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="24" height="32" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hm97uxjlyrU/SsVR37Uwb7I/AAAAAAAAAAs/PYdZzlaMSas/S220/DSC01155.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><content type="html">João Antônio está em frente ao espelho. A imagem que vê é a de um homem sem perspectiva. A imagem de um homem sem posses. Um homem sem uma certeza de futuro. Um homem sem nada.A barba de uma semana que sombreia seu rosto o faz parecer mais velho do que verdadeiramente é. A imagem que está a sua frente não é a que gostaria de ver. Ou ainda, não é a imagem que gostaria que os outros o vissem, 
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&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ULeeJvutf_qvbV2fNZPz37ptv7k/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ULeeJvutf_qvbV2fNZPz37ptv7k/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~4/DtkTFrW_iGc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/07/o-homem-do-espelho.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;Ak8BQXgzcCp7ImA9WhdSE0k.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9140583779832648264.post-1304605660536560375</id><published>2011-07-22T12:32:00.001-03:00</published><updated>2011-07-22T12:34:10.688-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-07-22T12:34:10.688-03:00</app:edited><title>João Antônio</title><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/feeds/1304605660536560375/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://escritospossiveis.blogspot.com/2011/07/joao-antonio.html#comment-form" title="0 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/1304605660536560375?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9140583779832648264/posts/default/1304605660536560375?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/EscritosPossveis-JooPauloMartoranoSalvador/~3/ROzVfJcMVLA/joao-antonio.html" title="João Antônio" /><author><name>João Paulo Martorano Salvador</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18343817080960964941</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="24" height="32" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hm97uxjlyrU/SsVR37Uwb7I/AAAAAAAAAAs/PYdZzlaMSas/S220/DSC01155.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><content type="html">A última vaca foi ordenhada e João Antônio vai tomar o seu mate ao lado do seu Juca, pai de Maria da Graça e capataz da fazenda Monte Alto. Senta-se no próprio banquinho da ordenha e acende um crioulo. A cadela Coleira permanece deitada tomando os primeiros raios do sol que, aos poucos, rompem a neblina.João Antônio olha para o nascente e fica a contemplar a paisagem, mas o que vê mesmo é a sua 
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