Tenho pensado muito nos ricos e na crise que atravessam - banqueiros, gestores, eu nem sei como eles se chamam, são tantos, coitadinhos. O Governo, os comentadores, os políticos e não políticos, à esquerda, à direita, ao centro, em baixo e em cima só falam dos pobres. E então os ricos? Por isso, aqui vai um poema do Charles Tomlinson. É o da semana no Times Literary Supplement.
The Rich
I like the rich – the way
they say: 'I'm not made of money':
their favourite pastoral
is to think they're not rich at all –
poorer, perhaps, than you or me,
for they have the imagination of that fall
into the pinched decency
we take for granted.
Of course,they do not want to be wanted
by all the skivvies and scrapers
who neither inherited nor rose.But are they daft or deft,
when they proclaim themselves
men of the left, as if prepared
at the first premonitory flush
of the red dawn
to go rushing into the street
and, share by share,
add to the common conflagration
their scorned advantage?
They know that it can't happen
in Worthing or Wantage:
with so many safety valves
between themselves and scalding,
all they have to fear
is wives, children, breath and balding.
And at worst
there is always some sunny
Aegean prospect. I like the rich –
they so resemble the rest
of us, except for their money.
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