ROSINHA, A BREJEIRA
Autor: Mariza C C. Cezar | Publicado: 2017-08-08T16:50:00-07:00

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BREJEIRA

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minha Poesia” Menina de Roça”) 





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&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Gostaria de dizer a
vocês da graça e boniteza de Rosinha a menina que chamou minha atenção durante
as minhas férias de verão, passada no campo.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Vou tentar fazê-lo do jeitinho que ela me
prendeu e inspirou com aquele jeito brejeiro de menina de roça.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; E ela era uma menina de
roça, uma daquelas moças donzelas de arraial e costumava amarar os cabelos com
laços de fita para ficar bonita e toda catita se enfeitar.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No peito pequeno e
mimoso, fremente, por sobre o vestido de chita, uma flor colocava suspirando
toda de anseio, com muito chiste e momice e na pracinha de amarrar égua, n’um
domingo, dia de festa, deitava os olhos como a buscar, sonhos ou algum caboclo
que a fazia suspirar toda de anseio e que fazia seus olhos tremelicar enquanto
repuxava o cabelo, na boca mantinha um sorriso de quem sem jeito está.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; E toda engomada, bonita
e catita a moça donzela o que queria era o seu amor provocar, tudo fazendo como
quem nada queria e sem jeito estivesse.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Enquanto a observava, eu
aproveitava para beber água na bica, água fresquinha de dar gosto! Deitava os
olhos pelo roçado e sentia o cheiro de mato, coisas simples, coisas boas como o
povo daquelas bandas. 

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Como era bom escutar o
gorjeio das aves de manhãzinha e no cair do sol. Saltitar com os grilos e
voltear com as borboletas que pousavam de flor em flor!

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Enquanto isso fazia,
observava e pensava em Rosinha que namorava de “relanceio”, suspirava toda de
anseio, pelo seu bem encontrar e com ele “trupicá”&nbsp; como quem nada quer e em seus braços se
enroscar como gata manhosa que não sabe de onde veio aquela pedra tinhosa que
bem no meio do caminho, seu pezinho descalço cutucou!

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A moça donzela,
fazendo-se de desprevenida, assustada e ferida, foi cair em braços fortes
daquele mesmo caboclo para o qual toda se enfeitou!

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rosinha bonita de dar
gosto e era matreira a dita mocinha brejeira, sabida em sua ingenuidade de
menina de roça, uma graça na verdade!

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rosinha a doce
caipirinha, nem soube que me prendeu e perdeu de amores e encantos, pois tão
ocupada estava na conquista do referido caboclo e nos sonhos e suspiros que ele
lhe arrancava, que não teve tempo e nem olhos para notar a conquista que fizera
naquelas férias de verão.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Que terá sido feito
dela? Terá se casado com aquele mesmo caboclo? Terá uma penca de filhos? Estará
ainda brejeira e bonita ou com a lida séria da vida, terá perdido o viço,
aqueles frescor e brejeirice, castigada pela realidade e crueza da roça. 

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Assim ficou na história
como uma interrogação e como um encanto perdido, uma doce lembrança das férias
de verão e será uma bonita estória a ser contada num futuro distante para as
crianças que quem sabe, um dia terei?



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&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mariza C.C. Cezar

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