tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70299178936875698282024-03-13T15:37:54.624-03:00Pacto PoéticoSandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.comBlogger1329125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-70323826929738198712023-09-28T19:15:00.000-03:002023-09-28T19:15:11.940-03:00Juventude<div style="text-align: center;">Eu gosto de gente jovem, não importa a idade</div><div style="text-align: center;">Gente que não endurece a razão</div><div style="text-align: center;">E acolhe todo tipo de emoção</div><div style="text-align: center;">Que mistura bem sofisticação com simplicidade</div><div style="text-align: center;">Vai no vai da valsa sem pressa e sem pressão</div><div style="text-align: center;">Que se faz inteira, mesmo estando metade</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_V7c09kwxBtoe3MHChip8yx2kdhmZr9oeU6-khcp0B1nWwuAzI4tsIZMF71ahGRdQ84w6sD2xMmAuXHBmn5C07FYi9tYwaorOJOfCFBzphiU2D2PDbTGWsR3yKuCRkx2-TCVbb23cHd2OoJANA4_97f67oDyVYmUBdW6_3ajmTKm3e4E_Sbv5X7yukii-/s1000/1000_F_544314509_rCUMPG5O3SeUYlGwgQ4wxfP0BPWc7fMv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_V7c09kwxBtoe3MHChip8yx2kdhmZr9oeU6-khcp0B1nWwuAzI4tsIZMF71ahGRdQ84w6sD2xMmAuXHBmn5C07FYi9tYwaorOJOfCFBzphiU2D2PDbTGWsR3yKuCRkx2-TCVbb23cHd2OoJANA4_97f67oDyVYmUBdW6_3ajmTKm3e4E_Sbv5X7yukii-/w400-h267/1000_F_544314509_rCUMPG5O3SeUYlGwgQ4wxfP0BPWc7fMv.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-67112822707801353642023-05-04T09:32:00.001-03:002023-05-04T09:32:27.254-03:00Guarda<div style="text-align: center;">Eu baixei a guarda</div><div style="text-align: center;">E, confesso, nem sabia que alta estava</div><div style="text-align: center;">Não sei se foi descuido, distração</div><div style="text-align: center;">Talvez, sem perceber, sentisse falta do ar faltar</div><div style="text-align: center;">Nesse vacilo, deixei de lado a proteção</div><div style="text-align: center;">Foi quando o golpe veio</div><div style="text-align: center;">Parece até que sem intenção,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mas, me pegou em cheio</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sacudiu o fino fio de razão</div><div style="text-align: center;">E que me mantinha firme na corda bamba da emoção</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3Gpm0tXxx5rWTO-rYNt4i1w7mH15Y7PcX1UYru_C67noACp7QCCJvVzzR2aP9xBdyDebWrUj6Z-rZWLF8pgR3zoxbE5c0itbt1CkwrmgDeqvPWx1-R7EgkzE8j1nHlKYvohuHXMs7BmcyMqRNA-U7wIPdRup1Fjxlxu01uWqABCULVReedRepR3S-Q/s500/cordabamba.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="401" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3Gpm0tXxx5rWTO-rYNt4i1w7mH15Y7PcX1UYru_C67noACp7QCCJvVzzR2aP9xBdyDebWrUj6Z-rZWLF8pgR3zoxbE5c0itbt1CkwrmgDeqvPWx1-R7EgkzE8j1nHlKYvohuHXMs7BmcyMqRNA-U7wIPdRup1Fjxlxu01uWqABCULVReedRepR3S-Q/w321-h400/cordabamba.jpeg" width="321" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h1 class="lH1 dyH iFc H2s R-d O2T tg7 IZT" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: var(--color-text-default); font-family: -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Fira Sans", "Droid Sans", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol"; font-size: var(--font-size-600); font-weight: var(--font-weight-semibold); margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">Pintura: Meg Meehan</h1></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-59897220948090491382023-05-01T16:15:00.002-03:002023-05-01T16:19:45.248-03:00Conclusões<div style="text-align: center;">Não é tua companhia que faz me falta</div><div style="text-align: center;">Eu vivo bem sem ti, sempre vivi</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mas, gosto do frio na barriga que tua presença me traz</div><div style="text-align: center;">Do olhar sedutor que me faz incendiar e tremer de frio</div><div style="text-align: center;">Do acreditar descrente nas palavras ditas com falsa displicência</div><div style="text-align: center;">É a ideia da paixão inventada que me traz vazio</div><div style="text-align: center;">Essa paixão que se perde na neblina da alma</div><div style="text-align: center;">E é por estar perdida que me acho</div><div style="text-align: center;">E mesmo trôpega e sem querer me afasto da ideia que fiz de ti</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqvIWhUpH8j102XSkvrHkPhGHWWLMtQoCi4Ed_ofR94IZG0mpoiLNrGIz4rDgrnYMCvDs9QgtjlGV09Am2nBhgRADNyMWGccHWOptX6U5_wMPPFexuIhXdACZCsDsuaBhtaV83LBz_P4sEltevHiOvX_utdwA88CNhOzovIQyZSEvAmgDPHaa0hJzzQ/s1176/Captura%20de%20Tela%202023-05-01%20a%CC%80s%2016.13.01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1176" data-original-width="1168" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqvIWhUpH8j102XSkvrHkPhGHWWLMtQoCi4Ed_ofR94IZG0mpoiLNrGIz4rDgrnYMCvDs9QgtjlGV09Am2nBhgRADNyMWGccHWOptX6U5_wMPPFexuIhXdACZCsDsuaBhtaV83LBz_P4sEltevHiOvX_utdwA88CNhOzovIQyZSEvAmgDPHaa0hJzzQ/s320/Captura%20de%20Tela%202023-05-01%20a%CC%80s%2016.13.01.png" width="318" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-66828269579827795222023-04-16T17:04:00.006-03:002023-04-16T17:30:31.181-03:00Fugidia<div style="text-align: center;">Eu me demoraria em teus olhos</div><div style="text-align: center;">Na poesia fugidia que vive neles</div><div style="text-align: center;">No brilho escuro de teus mistérios</div><div style="text-align: center;">Na doçura triste que ali percebo</div><div style="text-align: center;">Eu me deteria diante deles</div><div style="text-align: center;">Como quem espera as nuvens mostrarem a lua</div><div style="text-align: center;">E te veria inteira na nudez do meu olhar</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtVSNUZl2l0id6km4D0XtQJYK06b6ewk61sfpk3gfa041-CgG067dSH8enb6-71PkEMYO8LRDWs-dgw1NGIXmkcM2v0Yj6OBQDSWDGCFzmjoZLFWcXhRPhA9uT1WYzH7lBcG3VoAwaYM4EukulCPyXr0bkBCHyAPy9mmksrN87NYvepSIF3cjYRUGhw/s1164/Captura%20de%20Tela%202023-04-16%20a%CC%80s%2017.01.10.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="1164" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtVSNUZl2l0id6km4D0XtQJYK06b6ewk61sfpk3gfa041-CgG067dSH8enb6-71PkEMYO8LRDWs-dgw1NGIXmkcM2v0Yj6OBQDSWDGCFzmjoZLFWcXhRPhA9uT1WYzH7lBcG3VoAwaYM4EukulCPyXr0bkBCHyAPy9mmksrN87NYvepSIF3cjYRUGhw/s320/Captura%20de%20Tela%202023-04-16%20a%CC%80s%2017.01.10.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: <span style="box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: inherit;">Isabelle </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: inherit;">Duverger</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-63561029799041798852023-04-09T11:42:00.001-03:002023-04-09T19:08:23.381-03:00[descom]Passos<div style="text-align: center;">Eu sou toda amor e poesia</div><div style="text-align: center;">Feita de descompassos </div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Passos bêbados</div><div style="text-align: center;">Um juntar de tropeços</div><div style="text-align: center;">Apostas e espera</div><div style="text-align: center;">Entregas e recuos</div><div style="text-align: center;">Recolher e expandir</div><div style="text-align: center;">Desistir, insistir</div><div style="text-align: center;">Às vezes, canso</div><div style="text-align: center;">Então, descanso</div><div style="text-align: center;">Para não pensar no amanhã<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">O sentir é do agora</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYFCLAMny6RCPS0N4KKuur8SytBJN6S20fPZQJqm_ib5qIuVWSfaLgkQMKY1p3gwZPkq0SpsbqwUivfgCuoobmeOmSOBoPwfY_Md1ZGjuNa5vNrZhAQWhk6_8EThVXBBvsI88UG51eg-yyzCP41JcNicqe07LdYNH2KrNL6wbZBAEHkh-yEui70rt_A/s1284/Captura%20de%20Tela%202023-04-09%20a%CC%80s%2011.40.14.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="948" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYFCLAMny6RCPS0N4KKuur8SytBJN6S20fPZQJqm_ib5qIuVWSfaLgkQMKY1p3gwZPkq0SpsbqwUivfgCuoobmeOmSOBoPwfY_Md1ZGjuNa5vNrZhAQWhk6_8EThVXBBvsI88UG51eg-yyzCP41JcNicqe07LdYNH2KrNL6wbZBAEHkh-yEui70rt_A/w295-h400/Captura%20de%20Tela%202023-04-09%20a%CC%80s%2011.40.14.png" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Pintura de Albane De Labarthe</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-31594299987670218132023-03-27T22:19:00.004-03:002023-03-27T22:19:57.474-03:00Espasmo<div style="text-align: center;">Não, não te obrigues a me dar respostas</div><div style="text-align: center;">Nem tudo o que digo espera que algo digas</div><div style="text-align: center;">Às vezes, é só um jorro, um espasmo incontrolável</div><div style="text-align: center;">Palavras que me saem da alma em procura da tua</div><div style="text-align: center;">Em busca do encontro naquele átimo de segundo de genuína emoção</div><div style="text-align: center;">Não, não precisas me responder</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mas, nunca deixe de perguntar o que vejo em teus olhos</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLaehk9Nyu1M3oEHNH7mCQQiIyzumFvAT0gwz-QJpp5EgmLi81lHdDT6GxP_pdcH5lsZybGrSvjU2mE38guxMbuFSYIPXIQhZRbEhZuiNdkzYGp-GXbbS7bVtbTgMsCrwFHRDO3Ni0j7oYj8piCwgo9Y6Z06qmyWEVcbEm1m9hxDqhlARjHpbOlWEzHA/s1920/eye-g852863872_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1265" data-original-width="1920" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLaehk9Nyu1M3oEHNH7mCQQiIyzumFvAT0gwz-QJpp5EgmLi81lHdDT6GxP_pdcH5lsZybGrSvjU2mE38guxMbuFSYIPXIQhZRbEhZuiNdkzYGp-GXbbS7bVtbTgMsCrwFHRDO3Ni0j7oYj8piCwgo9Y6Z06qmyWEVcbEm1m9hxDqhlARjHpbOlWEzHA/w400-h264/eye-g852863872_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Victoria Borodinova</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-83963650073710210502023-03-26T09:36:00.003-03:002023-03-26T09:36:47.143-03:00Polaridades<div style="text-align: center;">Há uma alegria que me acompanha</div><div style="text-align: center;">Encontros vicejantes, paisagens, sons, cheiros</div><div style="text-align: center;">Um mundo de coisas que me faz os olhos brilharem</div><div style="text-align: center;">Há uma tristeza que me acompanha</div><div style="text-align: center;">Encontros frustrantes, desolação, maldades, medos</div><div style="text-align: center;">Um mundo de coisas que faz meus olhos chorarem</div><div style="text-align: center;">Há em mim, e possivelmente em ti,</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Um mundo que vibra, expande</div><div style="text-align: center;">E outro que contraí, encolhe</div><div style="text-align: center;">O passo a ser dado depende de como se escolhe</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUxwyKgCIpkjT95f-W5zBNmCCZb0OZ_7HSJjlOvrnnEho5HxzKxZM1RyPEDCNssimiXrCuOBIPp9dozUHXu17z3aC9XIRnKQnO0H5OTtOPgasYlpwh1XA44I6-GmuVJyNb-S2q6cGWAw97_uHD626dvcCTXIdEyGqy7njtd1PB1nVg6toW_fSqOocPg/s1162/Cha%CC%81%20Kobalia.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUxwyKgCIpkjT95f-W5zBNmCCZb0OZ_7HSJjlOvrnnEho5HxzKxZM1RyPEDCNssimiXrCuOBIPp9dozUHXu17z3aC9XIRnKQnO0H5OTtOPgasYlpwh1XA44I6-GmuVJyNb-S2q6cGWAw97_uHD626dvcCTXIdEyGqy7njtd1PB1nVg6toW_fSqOocPg/w279-h400/Cha%CC%81%20Kobalia.png" width="279" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: <a data-type="profile" href="https://www.saatchiart.com/account/profile/1998987" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f3f3f3; box-sizing: border-box; color: #f05026; font-family: "Crimson Text", serif; outline-width: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Chá Kobalia"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: inherit;">Chá Kobalia</span></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-32691818658851564522023-03-20T09:18:00.001-03:002023-03-20T09:42:07.263-03:00Becos, vielas, esquinas...<div style="text-align: center;">Passeava em sonhos estranhos</div><div style="text-align: center;">Numa esquina da madrugada o sono se perdeu</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sem rumo deu de andar nas curvas da mente</div><div style="text-align: center;">Lugar perigoso</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Labirinto de fantasia e história</div><div style="text-align: center;">Foi, então, tropeçando nas ruas da memória</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Se escondendo em becos, vielas</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Procurando sinais de outrora</div><div style="text-align: center;">Para preencher o instante de agora</div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd61T5K7Hh58vvBuL7MSam_IItlduKFE5ZxxdO4f5c0hAVPa_ZtUzkkeFhJfXtovBEpfOPqk0CAz3_Ake10uXWn72kMB61QH54Ds890ZIhDgz3cCYoojPf0G2qbqURyhpFHEYJ5aXpXNAkliIaueHzdnQvz0xQ2Tb3uOqyCLRvM96F3nLz6JvTyRmnQ/s400/Debra%20Hurd.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="255" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd61T5K7Hh58vvBuL7MSam_IItlduKFE5ZxxdO4f5c0hAVPa_ZtUzkkeFhJfXtovBEpfOPqk0CAz3_Ake10uXWn72kMB61QH54Ds890ZIhDgz3cCYoojPf0G2qbqURyhpFHEYJ5aXpXNAkliIaueHzdnQvz0xQ2Tb3uOqyCLRvM96F3nLz6JvTyRmnQ/w408-h640/Debra%20Hurd.jpeg" width="408" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Debra Hurd</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-64848713084688371792023-03-18T16:54:00.000-03:002023-03-18T16:54:00.477-03:00Sem pressa<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Eu não tenho pressa</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mas, eu tenho fome e sede</div><div style="text-align: center;">Fome de ver os teus olhos poéticos</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sede das águas que brotam</div><div style="text-align: center;">Embora não entenda o tempo das demoras</div><div style="text-align: center;">Eu sei que posso esperar</div><div style="text-align: center;">Não há urgências em tudo saciar</div><div style="text-align: center;">Apenas vontade sentir o chão de novo faltar</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9enGTU4-jtzqxbC4VYPTa5Rk3iN_sHZcYyzhb9j1fLZFWaY6NgTWhevF3MdmjOtiqKQg9HPcqI-Skt8iz5c8lphm_OAQ0cUcNwhLnJECf8n8ZqzeJLR0e-Q8ckeoeeE-DdURTSULbgS5X0F_HDeCPxE09gZnSXmrRRmFsAWMo2AHya-Tgbu5Z3HxXmg/s967/1-the-birthday-marc-chagall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="967" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9enGTU4-jtzqxbC4VYPTa5Rk3iN_sHZcYyzhb9j1fLZFWaY6NgTWhevF3MdmjOtiqKQg9HPcqI-Skt8iz5c8lphm_OAQ0cUcNwhLnJECf8n8ZqzeJLR0e-Q8ckeoeeE-DdURTSULbgS5X0F_HDeCPxE09gZnSXmrRRmFsAWMo2AHya-Tgbu5Z3HxXmg/w400-h206/1-the-birthday-marc-chagall.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Marc Chagall</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-1029519856066622682023-03-05T08:11:00.003-03:002023-03-05T08:12:39.379-03:00Cartas<div style="text-align: center;">As cartas estão na mesa</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mas, não se trata de um jogo</div><div style="text-align: center;">Tampouco de missivas vãs</div><div style="text-align: center;">São traduções de um sentir solto</div><div style="text-align: center;">Que se permite ler de trás para frente</div><div style="text-align: center;">Como o louco que leve caminha</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sem ter medo do precipício</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZiJqQ2coApix_uHS14hgFamBug4HgWRnhkmW_njKl3MlK0AAKTYcVTeGspBUZ6y4Smlw2AGKRjp-viu48G9B0p5j3fc0eOsiDnQyRO7rAdZvPq7Vi9efbm7v5qvPXs3v04GunDtdU3jjZMtJYBAi9A7OMoH8blrZrIOmgqroTYnO9mJHsPKsd1U4Hng/s997/the%20fool.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="997" data-original-width="735" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZiJqQ2coApix_uHS14hgFamBug4HgWRnhkmW_njKl3MlK0AAKTYcVTeGspBUZ6y4Smlw2AGKRjp-viu48G9B0p5j3fc0eOsiDnQyRO7rAdZvPq7Vi9efbm7v5qvPXs3v04GunDtdU3jjZMtJYBAi9A7OMoH8blrZrIOmgqroTYnO9mJHsPKsd1U4Hng/s320/the%20fool.jpeg" width="236" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: <span style="box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: inherit;">Konrad Biro</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-17999972493892902632020-08-17T22:21:00.000-03:002020-08-17T22:21:09.794-03:00Rito<div style="text-align: center;">Para ti não canto, recito</div><div style="text-align: center;">Aquela poesia escondida ali no canto</div><div style="text-align: center;">Atrás daquele vaguear cheio de encanto</div><div style="text-align: center;">Das memórias que deveria ter escrito</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mas, escapou-me num lapso do grafite</div><div style="text-align: center;">E tudo que certo dia disse, tenho dito</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sei que dizes que não para tanto</div><div style="text-align: center;">E te respondo que aprecio o rito</div><div style="text-align: center;">De deixar palavras em todo canto</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7AgMjibhr7TyI8km6_qv6xWfCg3OhLtOMeku8yloj5jVUgOQ0lm40A1jOOD3dv0g1Y72zREDGy4cVWQBd4zUGCBe2NoK32vtxBYJzYeeKyDOlHnPKhnC7jwWPIkqV5efaNAmc1eYPsR5/s650/recital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="650" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7AgMjibhr7TyI8km6_qv6xWfCg3OhLtOMeku8yloj5jVUgOQ0lm40A1jOOD3dv0g1Y72zREDGy4cVWQBd4zUGCBe2NoK32vtxBYJzYeeKyDOlHnPKhnC7jwWPIkqV5efaNAmc1eYPsR5/w328-h226/recital.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-56985978174562232312020-01-17T09:07:00.003-03:002020-01-17T09:07:46.730-03:00Chuva<div style="text-align: center;">
Adoro a chuva com pingos largos</div>
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Daqueles espaçados que malham o chão</div>
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E que fazem subir aromas infantis</div>
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Que resgatam memórias tantas</div>
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Das coisas que se via pela janela</div>
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Dos súbitos rios no leito das ruas</div>
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Das correrias por um abrigo</div>
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Do se abrir em abraço ao que vem do céu</div>
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Memórias que despertam vontades no agora</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQaTfPa0SVnOh-GD1dpevdSyEqowzUTNMvafzOUx-XEcc8vePOuNqsbLFvpAXHsxh1PJPvF6WGu6Ws-UY37lwrvoRMD3a-ZxbqbbiwXYRidSKrs_nv49pDwSUfDI2QTMRkeDIQkMTqPa2/s1600/being-a-woman-7-in-the-rain-kume-bryant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="900" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQaTfPa0SVnOh-GD1dpevdSyEqowzUTNMvafzOUx-XEcc8vePOuNqsbLFvpAXHsxh1PJPvF6WGu6Ws-UY37lwrvoRMD3a-ZxbqbbiwXYRidSKrs_nv49pDwSUfDI2QTMRkeDIQkMTqPa2/s320/being-a-woman-7-in-the-rain-kume-bryant.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Kume Bryant</td></tr>
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Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-15456623104709601952018-08-17T21:27:00.001-03:002018-08-17T21:27:07.655-03:00Disfarces<style type="text/css">
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Eu não percebo as entrelinhas</div>
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As ironias debruçadas</div>
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Críticas camufladas</div>
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Cutucões em pele de afagos</div>
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Os sorrisos por dentro amarelados</div>
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Desatento aos disfarces em rede</div>
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Para ver a vida como ela não é </div>
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Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-38523908904589693232018-06-22T22:23:00.001-03:002018-06-23T05:51:34.937-03:00Tapetes<div style="text-align: center;">
Aprecio as ruas por ti cobertas</div>
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E de ti é impossível cansar</div>
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És tão breve quando me visitas</div>
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Vens no inverno para matar saudades</div>
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[as minhas varam estações]</div>
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Sem cerimônia vais colorindo a vida</div>
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Sem pudor te misturas ao céu</div>
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E como o azul não te basta</div>
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Efêmeros tapetes teces<br />
Deixas assim ruas a voar<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISVkcFyv_nqJx8WT1YUwYVq5fXnOytponRJQE6gkNktkNDnii6zWxztE5C436rzGdjQ-QWbJHFELLe6NRSg6OkPxzy-EFg_PPHwfmHh3MVvLsjxcQW3MKRJZ_QG8OEtTcvgk8Id8_zQox/s1600/002296fd16b0037ea59e302967fff49c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="562" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISVkcFyv_nqJx8WT1YUwYVq5fXnOytponRJQE6gkNktkNDnii6zWxztE5C436rzGdjQ-QWbJHFELLe6NRSg6OkPxzy-EFg_PPHwfmHh3MVvLsjxcQW3MKRJZ_QG8OEtTcvgk8Id8_zQox/s400/002296fd16b0037ea59e302967fff49c.jpg" width="299" /></a></div>
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Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-23036025721878527642018-05-04T10:51:00.001-03:002018-05-04T15:48:06.675-03:00O silêncio e a palavra<div style="text-align: center;">
O silêncio encontrou a palavra</div>
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A palavra para ele falava</div>
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E ele, quieto, a observava</div>
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Dele ela queria sinais</div>
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Mas, eu os dou, ele pensava</div>
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O silêncio do seu jeito falava</div>
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E a palavra do seu jeito escutava</div>
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E assim souberam o que realmente importava</div>
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Que só no silêncio que se ouve a palavra </div>
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E que nesse abraço a dor se calava</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZdj5Bpc8rAGiXhy-tsL-p2JwPuSHmpdmbSxVtvXK0ZDuagviaoYzRcmQ4e-smuRzfAjh2bIMPU5UQtI9FnbV_I3FEv0Wh7xzwdsxcOtC-YPu3uuHom3lGphknFwtC_NnfNw95xOgJ0l7/s1600/Judy+Mackey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZdj5Bpc8rAGiXhy-tsL-p2JwPuSHmpdmbSxVtvXK0ZDuagviaoYzRcmQ4e-smuRzfAjh2bIMPU5UQtI9FnbV_I3FEv0Wh7xzwdsxcOtC-YPu3uuHom3lGphknFwtC_NnfNw95xOgJ0l7/s1600/Judy+Mackey.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Judy Mackey</td></tr>
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Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-73732202411801796802018-05-01T19:07:00.001-03:002018-05-01T20:27:45.437-03:00Pincéis<div style="text-align: center;">
Se artista fosse pincéis na mão eu teria</div>
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E com cores ainda não conhecidas teu corpo pintaria</div>
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Que fique claro que em teu corpo não seria</div>
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Numa tela o momento eu perpetuaria</div>
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O instante do teu prazer para sempre guardaria</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUG_GpZYDiYa5o0G36WrULeHKMnoQkCwWQlAp54bHbPjsgr6yiC8PYWb6JYqSUznCl4wzz6GzbWmlO5CdllQQ3g-2eRKGpQ-APfAq2jc2soycGc4Rh0XTGx5UjIg6FgMGLwouqw1n6deH7/s1600/Leonid+Afremov+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="1200" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUG_GpZYDiYa5o0G36WrULeHKMnoQkCwWQlAp54bHbPjsgr6yiC8PYWb6JYqSUznCl4wzz6GzbWmlO5CdllQQ3g-2eRKGpQ-APfAq2jc2soycGc4Rh0XTGx5UjIg6FgMGLwouqw1n6deH7/s400/Leonid+Afremov+.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Leonid Afremov </td></tr>
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<br />Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-42135196644668761762018-05-01T18:54:00.003-03:002018-05-01T19:13:21.167-03:00Primeiras Palavras<div style="text-align: center;">
Prefiro as primeiras palavras</div>
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Aquelas do nascer dos dias </div>
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E as que pedem benção à lua </div>
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Gosto das que inauguram as exclamações </div>
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E das que dão espaços para às dúvidas </div>
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Para deixar as certezas em suspenso </div>
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Por saberem que não são últimas </div>
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Apenas fingem o findar das coisas<br />
Para que se possam ter outros começos</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPGrWlmCjDl6GL4J5obCaSUBKtmrvUwhKmoFraP80ikP58C3Ok-b6oQ-q-Etx-XgB9XtXErbznqT_2VT4S0vJUhXtvMiDeWalAEv8m5m9r6XdBT0F4WIHU7lqyWFaKub3dIoKCXs0llzI/s1600/Kari+Sagal+Allgire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPGrWlmCjDl6GL4J5obCaSUBKtmrvUwhKmoFraP80ikP58C3Ok-b6oQ-q-Etx-XgB9XtXErbznqT_2VT4S0vJUhXtvMiDeWalAEv8m5m9r6XdBT0F4WIHU7lqyWFaKub3dIoKCXs0llzI/s400/Kari+Sagal+Allgire.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Kari Sagal Allgire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<br />Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-48060398441911817372017-12-10T12:32:00.001-02:002017-12-10T21:42:55.804-02:00Descompassos<style type="text/css">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Vou te tirar para dançar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Intuo que aceitarás a mão estendida</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Minha mão meio hesitante meio decidida</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Que treme toda quando está a te tocar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Vou te tirar para dançar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sinto que sentirás no meu corpo o frêmito</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E que me abraçaras para me acalmar as ânsias </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E dos descompassos nem te importar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
Vou te tirar para dançar<br />
Rodopiar contigo num mundo escondido<br />
Num tempo nosso e quiça desmedido<br />
E lá errar os passos sem querer disfarçar<br />
<br />
Vou te tirar para dançar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Liberar um pouco das emoções contidas</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Não me importar com rodopios incertos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Deixar [um pouco] a vida sair do lugar<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdW7bq-7Lb830xzBAgqU2Dc2JQOoUCuXKwWtjSOpq9NUUdklHuGOzKCFCEjX-MU8FGqnPebQYfZ2V3AIIA-aOrh1KX36Cdl-5GO9uetstXlN6r0ejz2-WexMjNSsaRPGflQ6_bnldozvnz/s1600/Max+Bohm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdW7bq-7Lb830xzBAgqU2Dc2JQOoUCuXKwWtjSOpq9NUUdklHuGOzKCFCEjX-MU8FGqnPebQYfZ2V3AIIA-aOrh1KX36Cdl-5GO9uetstXlN6r0ejz2-WexMjNSsaRPGflQ6_bnldozvnz/s1600/Max+Bohm.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Pintura: Max Bohm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-29101140198040856082017-10-13T16:53:00.000-03:002017-10-13T16:53:02.296-03:00Chão<div style="text-align: center;">
Hoje eu quero te desconcentrar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Deixar-te das coisas sem noção</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tirar-te do eixo, rodopiar-te</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sem os pés plantados fazer dos sonhos o chão<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikF1AsceofWaHj2PNgfLnRXlqe0rJgXiPzWzyrcHaJL23EFyUp-T0HzdAVLXKZZ5VpEGNa8DoJOFiLlFeTIsMiOGVBLw4cm6P5icA5ofB9rwdxOiNmKBH3riCdvZBs4-xP3WHYzLqeXm7J/s1600/art_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="690" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikF1AsceofWaHj2PNgfLnRXlqe0rJgXiPzWzyrcHaJL23EFyUp-T0HzdAVLXKZZ5VpEGNa8DoJOFiLlFeTIsMiOGVBLw4cm6P5icA5ofB9rwdxOiNmKBH3riCdvZBs4-xP3WHYzLqeXm7J/s400/art_image.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Pintura: Brajmohan Arya<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-11873087790710482262017-08-30T08:52:00.000-03:002017-08-30T08:56:28.406-03:00Corredor<div style="text-align: center;">
Tenho os meus segredos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Meus cantos escondidos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Assim como tu e as outras gentes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tenho portas trancadas no fim do longo corredor</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Lá vou amiúde na quietude das descobertas</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tem vez que nada descubro</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
N'outras vejo tantas coisas que nem quero retornar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mas, retorno por saber que coisas outras há</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Assim como há portas que deixo entreabertas </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Convites para atravessar fronteiras</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Para outros olhos me verem por dentro</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E quem sabe me revelarem um pouco do que sou</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_u1b96JH7PEwimyCQ_l_UZuCHjlLUWMjY9ZJma9ey9GhtOoo6Yuyj_eD6qkVsNf88ST2AvcEiCRcAEVAmr_RRd5DvREH-szmBq4BZwoZDbmjfdOx5G1vBTa-H7cGrLHkuPb20h0N2_8-/s1600/Vincent+van+Gogh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_u1b96JH7PEwimyCQ_l_UZuCHjlLUWMjY9ZJma9ey9GhtOoo6Yuyj_eD6qkVsNf88ST2AvcEiCRcAEVAmr_RRd5DvREH-szmBq4BZwoZDbmjfdOx5G1vBTa-H7cGrLHkuPb20h0N2_8-/s400/Vincent+van+Gogh.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Vincent van Gogh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-28760567903529164932017-08-14T06:37:00.003-03:002017-08-14T06:37:47.888-03:00Dançando no vácuo<div style="text-align: center;">
No ruidoso silêncio há uma dança sutil</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bailam sem chão </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Flutuam nos pensamentos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Trespassam os sentimentos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Do aperto do peito tentam escapar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Carecem de espaço para se lançar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No vácuo da vida apenas dançar<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52vhvCH4EdlKxhXb0BQmTRVlzZcrED1l6HjJ1zbGC7RPS_BMT3Il4WwWz2dSHu8GnXDLC-D2lVNdXsX-8035Fsk-me0duVncgYOklbc3oOC77jI4rmHXR-VazRHhgB-bTU_PQmFV_HqXp/s1600/6-IMG_1864.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="959" data-original-width="1464" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52vhvCH4EdlKxhXb0BQmTRVlzZcrED1l6HjJ1zbGC7RPS_BMT3Il4WwWz2dSHu8GnXDLC-D2lVNdXsX-8035Fsk-me0duVncgYOklbc3oOC77jI4rmHXR-VazRHhgB-bTU_PQmFV_HqXp/s400/6-IMG_1864.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Escher </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-14176774307933399792017-07-24T10:49:00.000-03:002017-07-24T10:49:16.014-03:00Caldeirão<div style="text-align: center;">
Quero fazer poção mágica</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Misturar ingredientes certos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Alegria, ternura e sonhos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sorrisos, ventura e cores</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Leveza, abraços e beijos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Conversas sem fim e silêncios</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tempo sem tempo de ir</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tudo em caldeirão infinito</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Para nunca acabar o encanto</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljIoDlKB3C7pb5_lv04AEpw0Q79OdJ70dO1KNSTNuNXK42_KPYOQnlWRvydG9wmE7wjITnJ70nadjG5U4orK7Wt4yv2L18TwQKCtgyE-d2Kgr1UNhJaOiy0CYcb6tH3QOH2ApXXfxIskQ/s1600/Captura+de+tela+2017-07-24+10.42.12.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljIoDlKB3C7pb5_lv04AEpw0Q79OdJ70dO1KNSTNuNXK42_KPYOQnlWRvydG9wmE7wjITnJ70nadjG5U4orK7Wt4yv2L18TwQKCtgyE-d2Kgr1UNhJaOiy0CYcb6tH3QOH2ApXXfxIskQ/s1600/Captura+de+tela+2017-07-24+10.42.12.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Pintura: Emily Balivet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</style>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-52030072408658619372017-06-25T07:57:00.001-03:002017-06-25T07:57:27.926-03:00Ironia<div style="text-align: center;">
Fugi para o interior</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pensei que lá protegida estaria</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Que lá de mim me esconderia</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E o que cansei de ver não mais veria</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E com sorte de mim me livraria</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mas que tolo esconderijo se mostraria</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Por obra da mais fina ironia</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Era exatamente ali que me encontraria</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtwLmYCH8IIflkRzlnS4PikZj4cEnW51SUDqXM_seWd0UOVCNWq1AsemXVsLhyZMWxsY1NN3DVhqLiVVH8ckhYzk6jn0o_B62sPcR6HPVyveMp_FgOyxiFRD7y9j4iAXSgZ9VbuJNzGai/s1600/Serge+Ivanoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="640" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtwLmYCH8IIflkRzlnS4PikZj4cEnW51SUDqXM_seWd0UOVCNWq1AsemXVsLhyZMWxsY1NN3DVhqLiVVH8ckhYzk6jn0o_B62sPcR6HPVyveMp_FgOyxiFRD7y9j4iAXSgZ9VbuJNzGai/s400/Serge+Ivanoff.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Serge Ivanoff</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</style>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-56802855018731508792017-06-25T07:30:00.001-03:002017-06-25T07:30:09.343-03:00Rosas Guardadas<div style="text-align: center;">
Vou guardar a rosa</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mas, não apenas essa</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Vou guardar todas</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Todas as flores que já me destes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E as do tempo futuro</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fazer cama de pétalas</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Deitar em aromas de memórias</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dormir, não para descansar o corpo</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sim, para minha’alma te sonhar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2IiHDX5Q5i9HDA43bqeunde_NBIDDsJNDv98fFhmfNW9o7QOXucCYwYuil93tzHAcBJBqypC7MlDsEgPlH9YHZqRmEKrr5vgqT9x5hPEv-DDfQault_AYyIG-ThUnIWGuDQH8Am0eGQ1/s1600/rose-abstract-paintings-1-gordon-punt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2IiHDX5Q5i9HDA43bqeunde_NBIDDsJNDv98fFhmfNW9o7QOXucCYwYuil93tzHAcBJBqypC7MlDsEgPlH9YHZqRmEKrr5vgqT9x5hPEv-DDfQault_AYyIG-ThUnIWGuDQH8Am0eGQ1/s400/rose-abstract-paintings-1-gordon-punt.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintura: Gordon Punt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545}
</style>Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7029917893687569828.post-76986335986563302792017-04-14T11:23:00.000-03:002017-04-14T12:37:55.932-03:00Perfume<div style="text-align: center;">
Hoje eu vou passar perfume</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Misturar outros aromas aos cheiros meus</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Aos já conhecidos por teus sentidos</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Quero um olor novo e indistinto</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Capaz de atravessar distâncias</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
E te carregar para dentro de mim</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqD9eumMVgjJD7-dRpBX8usHdfihm9Tfy9xoUwJhXdfLyN8alUfu9Y8eYQgcWFpfFzHMwCdKU898W5WNMtbTEY3SQq9SAgyVk8WguDDdGlgrl7MCG02kefbeUqnmTt9Ed6Vc9ZCRClYLE/s1600/what-to-do-when-a-perfume-you-love-doesnt-love-you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqD9eumMVgjJD7-dRpBX8usHdfihm9Tfy9xoUwJhXdfLyN8alUfu9Y8eYQgcWFpfFzHMwCdKU898W5WNMtbTEY3SQq9SAgyVk8WguDDdGlgrl7MCG02kefbeUqnmTt9Ed6Vc9ZCRClYLE/s320/what-to-do-when-a-perfume-you-love-doesnt-love-you.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sandra Quinteirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17007554734972849861noreply@blogger.com0