FILIPE NUNES

 .

O Matuto e os 18 dias

na Barriga dum Barco

Era a ORNABI, livraria do Sr. Luís Oliveira Dias. Havia no ar uma nostalgia de bondes parados, cavalheiros de chapéu, elevadores de madeira, café passado na hora e o cheiro da garoa tocando o chão quente. E havia livros. Muitos livros. Milhares deles, espalhados pelos “espaços” em torres de Pisa periclitantes, ameaçando tombar ao menor espirro.

𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑖𝑛𝘩𝑎 𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝘩𝑎́ 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑐𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜 𝑛𝑜 𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙. 𝑂 𝑎𝑛𝑜 𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟿. 𝐸𝑚 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑎 𝑆𝑎̃𝑜 𝑃𝑎𝑢𝑙𝑜, 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑜. 𝐸 𝑓𝑜𝑖 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑜 𝐶𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜.

𝑁𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑎 𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑜 𝐵𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑖𝑢́𝑣𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝐵𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡, 𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒 𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜, 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑎̃𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑒̂𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑢 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑟, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑜.

𝐸𝑟𝑎 𝑎 𝑂𝑅𝑁𝐴𝐵𝐼, 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑜 𝑆𝑟. 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑂𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎 𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑠. 𝐻𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑎 𝑛𝑜 𝑎𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠, 𝑐𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑙𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑒́𝑢, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎, 𝑐𝑎𝑓𝑒́ 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑎 𝘩𝑜𝑟𝑎 𝑒 𝑜 𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜 𝑑𝑎 𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑎 𝑡𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑜 𝑐𝘩𝑎̃𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒. 𝐸 𝘩𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠. 𝑀𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠. 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑙𝘩𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑠 “𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐̧𝑜𝑠” 𝑒𝑚 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑃𝑖𝑠𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑐̧𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑟𝑜.

𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑣𝑎𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠 “𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐̧𝑜𝑠” 𝑑𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑚 𝑠𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑚𝑎̃𝑜 — 𝑠𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑠, 𝑛𝑜 𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙, 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟. 𝐸𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑎, 𝑠𝑎𝑖 𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑎, 𝑑𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑒 𝑑𝑎́ 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑚. 𝐻𝑎́ 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜 𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑜. 𝐿𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑐𝘩𝑎̃𝑜, 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠, 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜𝑠 𝑎̀ 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎̀ 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑟 𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑚 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑚.

𝐴𝑡𝑟𝑎́𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑎̃𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎́ 𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠, 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑎. 𝑃𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑒̂𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑜 𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑧 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝑟𝑎𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑑𝑎. 𝑈𝑚 𝘩𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑚 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑙𝑖 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑜, 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠.

𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑎. 𝐸 𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑐̧𝑎 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑠. 𝐹𝑜𝑖 𝑒𝑚 𝟷𝟿𝟹𝟿. 𝐴 𝐸𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑣𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟, 𝑟𝑢𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑜𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑎 𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎. 𝑃𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑙 𝑒 𝑆𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑧𝑎𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝘩𝑎𝑚 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑢́𝑏𝑖𝑎. 𝑂 𝑝𝑎𝑖 𝑑𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑜𝑙𝘩𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝘩𝑜 𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑎 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑎̃𝑜: “𝑉𝑎𝑖 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑜 𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙, 𝑚𝑒𝑢 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝘩𝑜. 𝐹𝑎𝑧 𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑙𝑎́ 𝑒 𝑠𝑒̂ 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑧. 𝑄𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑙𝑎́ 𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑎 𝑜 𝑆𝑟. 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎. 𝑁𝑎̃𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑖 𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑚 𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑧, 𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑗𝑢𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑎́.”

𝐸 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑚 𝑜 𝑗𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑚 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 — 𝑐𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑚, 𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑖𝑙𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜 𝑒 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑎 — 𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑢 𝑜 𝐴𝑡𝑙𝑎̂𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑜. 𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎́ 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑜 𝑎𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑜.

𝑂 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑟. 𝐹𝑎𝑧 𝑝𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑎𝑠. 𝐴̀𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑧𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑣𝑟𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝘩𝑎́ 𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑠. 𝑂𝑢 𝘩𝑎́ 𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎. 𝑂𝑢 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑎𝑙𝑖, 𝑛𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟, 𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒 𝑎̀𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠 𝘩𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑖𝑠. 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑚 𝑆𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑠 𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑢 𝑢𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑐̧𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑆𝑎̃𝑜 𝑃𝑎𝑢𝑙𝑜.

𝐴𝜄́, 𝑎 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑜́𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑜 𝑗𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑚. 𝑆𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑜 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑥𝑜 𝑑𝑎 𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑑𝑎̃𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑚 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑜. 𝐸𝑥𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑜. 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑜. 𝐷𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑛𝑎 𝑚𝑎̃𝑜. 𝑈𝑚 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑧 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑏𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜, 𝑠𝑜𝑧𝑖𝑛𝘩𝑜 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑎, 𝑛𝑢𝑚 𝑝𝑎𝜄́𝑠 𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑜.

𝐴𝑡𝑒́ 𝑞𝑢𝑒, 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑢𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝐶𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜, 𝑣𝑒̂ 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑎: 𝐿𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝐿𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑎. 𝑂 𝑛𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑙𝘩𝑎 𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑎 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎 𝑝𝑎́𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑎. 𝐸𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎. 𝐶𝑜𝑚 𝑢𝑚 𝑛𝑜́ 𝑛𝑎 𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑎: “𝐵𝑜𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑠. 𝑉𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝘩𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑖𝑥𝑎.ᐣ”

𝐴 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑖𝑜 𝑐𝑒́𝑙𝑒𝑟𝑒: “𝑇𝑢 𝑒́𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑟𝜄́𝑐𝑖𝑜, 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑧.ᐟ 𝐷𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑠.ᐣ”

𝐸 𝑎𝑙𝑖, 𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑎́𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑎̃𝑜, 𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝘩𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑐̧𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑔𝑎. 𝑂 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑧 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝘩𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎. 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑢 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑖 𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑓𝑢𝑔𝑖𝑟 𝑎̀ 𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎. 𝑄𝑢𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑎𝑗𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝟷𝟾 𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑎 𝑑𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑜. 𝑄𝑢𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑣𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑜 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑜. 𝑄𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝘩𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒́𝑚. 𝑄𝑢𝑒 𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑖 𝑙𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑒 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎.

𝑂 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜 𝑜𝑢𝑣𝑖𝑢 𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑜 𝑒, 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑚, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑜𝑢: “𝑆𝑜́ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝘩𝑒𝑐̧𝑜 𝑢𝑚 𝘩𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑚 𝑒𝑚 𝑃𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑧 𝑑𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑒́𝑐𝑖𝑎. 𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑚𝑎-𝑠𝑒 𝐽𝑜𝑠𝑒́ 𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑠.” 𝑂 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑧 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑜𝑙𝘩𝑎𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑙𝑒. “𝐸́ 𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑢 𝑝𝑎𝑖.”

𝐸𝑛𝑡𝑎̃𝑜 𝑜 𝑆𝑟. 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎 — 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑣𝑎 — 𝑎𝑐𝑜𝑙𝘩𝑒 𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑧, 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝘩𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒, 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑝𝑎 𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑝𝑎 𝑙𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑑𝑎. 𝐴̀𝑠 𝟼𝘩𝟹𝟶 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑎, 𝑜 𝑗𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑚 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎́ 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑎𝑙𝘩𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑎́𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑎̃𝑜, 𝑎𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑎 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑎, 𝐷𝑜𝑛𝑎 𝐶𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒.

𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝘩𝑎 𝑎 𝘩𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒. 𝐴 𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑣𝑒. 𝐴 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑎 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑣𝑎𝑖 𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜. 𝑂 𝑣𝑒𝑙𝘩𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑎 𝑒, 𝑒𝑛𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑎, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑟 𝑎𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜 𝑑𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎. 𝐴𝑡𝑟𝑎́𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎 𝘩𝑎́ 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝘩𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎. 𝐸 𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝘩𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑎.

𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑎 𝑢𝑛𝑠 “𝐸𝑐̧𝑎𝑠” 𝑒 𝑎 𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑚 𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑠. 𝑂 𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎́𝑏𝑖𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎́ 𝑝𝑜𝑣𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑣𝑎𝑖 𝑎𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜. 𝐷𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑎𝑖-𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑖𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑠: 𝑜 “𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐̧𝑜” 𝑃𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑎̃𝑜, 𝑑𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑎̀ 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑖𝑎; 𝑀𝑎́𝑟𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝐴𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑒, 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑎; 𝐸𝑢𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑎 𝐶𝑢𝑛𝘩𝑎, 𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙; 𝑜 𝐸𝑐𝑙𝑒́𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑜; 𝑜 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑚𝑜̃𝑒𝑠; 𝑒 𝑜 𝑅𝑢𝑦 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑠𝑎.

𝐶𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠. 𝑂 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑟, 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑐̧𝑎𝑟, 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑚 𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠-𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑠: 𝐴𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑟, 𝑀𝑎𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑑𝑜, 𝐹𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜... 𝐶𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑒́𝑝𝑜𝑐𝑎.

𝑂 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒̂ 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒̂𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑜 𝑒 𝑛𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜̂𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎̂𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑎 “𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐̧𝑜”. 𝐷𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑒𝑚 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎 𝑜𝑠 𝑜𝑙𝘩𝑜𝑠 𝑒 𝑙𝑎́ 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎́ 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑟𝑜, 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑑𝑎, 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑑𝑜.

𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑢𝑛𝘩𝑎𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜. 𝑂 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑧𝑖𝑎 𝐻𝑎𝑚𝑙𝑒𝑡, 𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒̂𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑜. 𝑆𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑔𝑜. 𝐸, 𝑑𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑒𝑚 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜, 𝑎𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒, 𝑎 𝑣𝑜𝑧 𝑒𝑠𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐̧𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑑𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑢 𝐿𝑢𝜄́𝑠.

𝑆𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑎 𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑎.

* Sociólogo, professor universitário e assessor político

IN "NASCER DO SOL" -22/09/26 .