Comentário:
Há bom tempo, o clima do "governo companheiro" é cópia dos Tonton Macoute. Toninho do PT e Celso Daniel são apenas dois casos a mais no movimento dos aloprados, dirigidos por quem não vê, não ouve, não toca, não cheira, não sente o gosto dos dejetos dominantes. Usar os cinco sentidos, ou um só deles, seria perder o alibi predileto dos atuais PUDEROSOS. Mas as pessoas que pagam imposto e ainda têm saúde física e mental, sentem o cheiro e repetem o dito lúcido : "Something is rotten in the state...". Mas Plutarco e La Boétie advertem: não existe tirania sem a lisonja dos cortesãos e sem que o povo seja enganado VOLUNTARIAMENTE pelo demagogo no trono. No final, todos serão caveiras, sua lingua aduladora para nada mais servirá, pois o adulado possui o mesmo estatuto dos seus aduladores: todos caminham para o pó.
"Hamlet : That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once:
how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were
Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It
might be the pate of a politician, which this ass
now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God,
might it not?
HORATIO
It might, my lord.
HAMLET
Or of a courtier; which could say 'Good morrow,
sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?' This might
be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord
such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?".
Os "pegadores" como diz o bom Vieira, os que se aproveitam da vaidade principesca para subir na vida, os oportunistas para dizer tudo, apoiarão o cego, mudo, anaísteto, até o dia em que o barco mostrar seus buracos imensos, cavados desde agora por eles mesmos.
A constatação da fuga e da existência dos traidores chega sempre tarde. E todos os tiranos recebem a morte não querida, se enfurecem ao saber das traições praticadas por eles mesmos e por eles inventada para sobreviver a custa dos adversários.
" KING RICHARD II : O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
(....)
No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?".
Em nosso Estado apodrecido, terra das traições oficiais e dos traidores ex officio, não existe a triste beleza dos versos acima. Tudo é muito feio.
Mas é o que temos.
Roberto Romano
