R.I.P

Bergman morreu.
Fiquei fora de circulação por uns tempos: fora de tudo e principalmente de pipocas televisivas. Comprei, recentemente, alguns filmes dele que sempre quis. E ele morreu...
Não que fôssemos bater papo sobre seus filmes, mas me sinto meio órfã.
Que pena. Bergman se foi.
Para ele, os versos de W.H. Auden e de Funeral Blues:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.