O Palácio das Correntes de Ar

Milena caminhava de cabeça erguida e pose altiva. Precisava mostrar aos seus súbtidos a elegância de uma rainha. Um pé em frente do outro, o pescoço esticado e costas direitas. Fitava os criados que passavam do alto da sua majestade, pela fresta que os seus olhos se tornavam ao vento. O vento. Porque estava tanto vento?

- Fechem as janelas. - ordenou num tom aristocrático, que levara muitos anos a conquistar. quando fechava os olhos, ainda escutava a voz da sua mãe, advertindo-a para o tom de voz e o volume digno de uma senhora, uma rainha!

Os seus pés estavam tão gelados, que cada passo na passadeira vermelha era uma pequena lâmina que se espetava sem misericórdia.

O seu manto arrastava pelo chão, tinha frio, queria cobrir-se com ele, mas uma rainha, jamais perde a compostura. Não podia mostrar fraqueza.

Os criados corriam de um lado para o outro, demasiado apressados para vê-la, demasiado concentrados para escutá-la. A corrente de ar continuava.

Sentiu-se subitamente só, desprovida, abandonada. É assim ser realeza, ninguém está ao nosso lado, ninguém nos ama realmente. Continuou a deambular pelo corredor e entrou num dos quartos. Eram todos iguais, todos vazios. Deitou-se sobre o colchão de penas e cobriu-se com os lençóis de cetim. Fechou os olhos.

A menina descia a escada alegremente, saltitava de degrau em degrau, sem nunca largar a mão da sua mãe. Ao deparar-se com aquele corpo caído no vão de escada, soltou um gritinho.

- Mãe, o que é isto?

A mãe fitou com desprezo o amontoado em que se tornava aquela mulher androjosa, adormecida contra os degraus.

- É só uma bêbeda. Vamos embora.

A menina fitou os pés descalços, enegrecidos e feridos pelo alcatrão. Aproximou-se a medo e reparou que sobre os cabelos desgrenhados e sujos, jazia uma teara feita com papel de alumínio.

- Mãe, Mãe, olha!

A mãe voltou-se novamente irritada com a insistência da criança.

- O que foi?!

- É uma rainha.

(Imagem: http://viveintensamenteesorri.blogspot.pt/2006/05/cortina-esvoaante.html)

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