Nunca pensei que eu pudesse transitar entre o Sol e o Sol sustenido tão despudoradamente (digo, Sol e Lá bemol...). É o doce problema de fazer música no calor da intuição. Ela vem assim. Tori Amos tem sua intimidade com as fadas, pois a intimidade com as fadas que me chega é meio assim, fiel e traiçoeira na mesma patada afagadora.
Me encontrei com esse poema de Percy Shelley, uma uva que tive que descascar nessa empreitada. Ode to the west wind. Foi-me dado traduzido e recortado em um parágrafo curto, que só se deixou musicar quando li o inteiro, no original. Tem em crosta e recheio o espírito de Shelmerdine, personagem que traz a música, chamada "Vento do Oeste".
C D C B C A C Bb
Ah, Vento que vem do Oeste
Bb C Bb A Bb C Ab G
Vai, leva'o meu pensamento
Bb C Bb A Bb G Bb Ab
Como'as folhas secas dançam
Ab Bb Ab G Ab F G
Para'um novo renascer
C Bb Ab G F G Ab F
A magi-a desses versos
C D Bb
Eb D G Bb D C
Cinzas e centelhas
D C Bb Ab G G F G Bb G F
Como de'uma lareira sempre'ardente
F G Bb G F G(Eb)
Minhas palavras vão...
Acima, a notação deliciada na flauta doce contralto, indicando a melodia da voz cantada. A música, entretanto, não está no espetáculo. A cena para a qual ela foi feita é acompanhada pelo segundo "Vento", instrumental de flauta e violão, embalada pelo mesmo espírito.
Abaixo, a poesia de Shelmerdine, digo, de Shelley:
Ode to the West Wind
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow and black, and pale, and hectic red.
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild spirit which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
Thou on whose stream, ‘mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! There are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulcher,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of the vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, an d fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams,
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intensive day,
All overgrown with azure moss, an d flowers
So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers,
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee:
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shave
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrolable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, – I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh1 lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I faint upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee – tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness, Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive me dead thoughts over the universe,
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind;
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Percy Bysshe Shelley
in Prometheus Unbound