Poem
Manuel de Freitas
ECCE HOMO
I’d never woken up in a place like that – a hovel pastall imagining, near the gothic city of Santarém.
His house.
I’d met him at the Fandango
and knew only that a tearless sadness
lit up his afternoons and evenings.
This time it was different. I’d just broken
a glass in the only still open pub
(its name now expunged from my memory).
He came over and sat down, one drunk
facing another, united by the quasi-splendor
of their fall. He invited me to follow him and,
without knowing why, I followed. All the way
to the two rooms in which he lived,
without neighbors – an aluminum and plywood
shack that made the word despair
an inadequate euphemism. The dog,
at least, was glad to see us arrive.
Then he cried, over nothing. He merely wanted
a real shoulder where he could lean his head
which his wife and daughters would no longer even kiss
in a dream. He needed no words or gestures,
just an ear to hear him share the unshareable
which perhaps (I don’t quite remember) he called sorrow.
He fell asleep that way, on my shoulder – and I
could have killed (but not him) for a beer
or the gin that, a few hours earlier, dropped too soon
to the floor. In the morning, when I woke up, I gently
shook him and said I really had to go. He kissed
my hand, thanking me with his rotted smile
for that nothing at all between two men
who won’t ever see each other again. Outside,
a muffled light advised against any
lyrical attempt, dying among the cabbages
and junk that made his solitude less solitary.
I didn’t recognize the city: dingy, dull, shoddy.
I shivered with cold and sleepiness while boarding the first
bus and almost believed – for a few hours –
that there was someone, after all, even sadder than me.
© Translation: 2007, Richard Zenith
ECCE HOMO
ECCE HOMO
Nunca amanhecera assim, num inimaginávelbarracão perto da cidade gótica.
A sua casa.
Conhecia-o do Fandango,
e sabia apenas que uma tristeza sem lágrimas
lhe iluminava as tardes e as noites.
Dessa vez foi diferente. Eu acabara de partir
um copo no único pub ainda aberto
(a memória já não me devolve o nome).
Ele veio sentar-se ao meu lado, bêbedo
contra bêbedo, unidos pelo quase esplendor
da queda. Convidou-me a segui-lo e eu,
não sei bem porquê, acedi. Acompanhei-o
até às duas assoalhadas em que morava
– sem vizinhos, numa barraca de alumínio
e tabopan que fazia da palavra desespero
um eufemismo inoportuno. O cão,
pelo menos, gostou de nos ver chegar.
Depois chorou, a troco de nada. Queria apenas
um ombro concreto onde pousar a cabeça
que a mulher e as filhas já nem por engano
beijavam. Não precisava de gestos ou palavras,
bastava-lhe ser ouvido, partilhar o impartilhável
a que talvez chamasse (não me lembro bem) a dor.
Adormeceu assim, no meu ombro – e eu estava
capaz de matar (mas não a ele) por uma cerveja,
pelo gin que horas antes encontrara demasiado
cedo o chão. Ao amanhecer, abanei-o levemente,
disse-lhe que tinha mesmo de ir. Beijou-me
a mão, agradeceu com um sorriso estragado
aquele nada de nada entre dois homens
que nunca mais se voltarão a ver. Cá fora,
uma luz amordaçada desaconselhava qualquer
tentação lírica, vinha morrer nas couves,
nos dejectos vários que lhe tornavam menos só a solidão.
Não reconheci a cidade: pálida, desinteressante, reles.
Tremia de sono e frio ao entrar no primeiro
autocarro e quase acreditei – por algumas horas –
que existia, afinal, alguém ainda mais triste do que eu.
© 2003, Manuel de Freitas
From: Beau Séjour
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisboa
From: Beau Séjour
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of Manuel de Freitas
Close
ECCE HOMO
I’d never woken up in a place like that – a hovel pastall imagining, near the gothic city of Santarém.
His house.
I’d met him at the Fandango
and knew only that a tearless sadness
lit up his afternoons and evenings.
This time it was different. I’d just broken
a glass in the only still open pub
(its name now expunged from my memory).
He came over and sat down, one drunk
facing another, united by the quasi-splendor
of their fall. He invited me to follow him and,
without knowing why, I followed. All the way
to the two rooms in which he lived,
without neighbors – an aluminum and plywood
shack that made the word despair
an inadequate euphemism. The dog,
at least, was glad to see us arrive.
Then he cried, over nothing. He merely wanted
a real shoulder where he could lean his head
which his wife and daughters would no longer even kiss
in a dream. He needed no words or gestures,
just an ear to hear him share the unshareable
which perhaps (I don’t quite remember) he called sorrow.
He fell asleep that way, on my shoulder – and I
could have killed (but not him) for a beer
or the gin that, a few hours earlier, dropped too soon
to the floor. In the morning, when I woke up, I gently
shook him and said I really had to go. He kissed
my hand, thanking me with his rotted smile
for that nothing at all between two men
who won’t ever see each other again. Outside,
a muffled light advised against any
lyrical attempt, dying among the cabbages
and junk that made his solitude less solitary.
I didn’t recognize the city: dingy, dull, shoddy.
I shivered with cold and sleepiness while boarding the first
bus and almost believed – for a few hours –
that there was someone, after all, even sadder than me.
© 2007, Richard Zenith
From: Beau Séjour
From: Beau Séjour
ECCE HOMO
I’d never woken up in a place like that – a hovel pastall imagining, near the gothic city of Santarém.
His house.
I’d met him at the Fandango
and knew only that a tearless sadness
lit up his afternoons and evenings.
This time it was different. I’d just broken
a glass in the only still open pub
(its name now expunged from my memory).
He came over and sat down, one drunk
facing another, united by the quasi-splendor
of their fall. He invited me to follow him and,
without knowing why, I followed. All the way
to the two rooms in which he lived,
without neighbors – an aluminum and plywood
shack that made the word despair
an inadequate euphemism. The dog,
at least, was glad to see us arrive.
Then he cried, over nothing. He merely wanted
a real shoulder where he could lean his head
which his wife and daughters would no longer even kiss
in a dream. He needed no words or gestures,
just an ear to hear him share the unshareable
which perhaps (I don’t quite remember) he called sorrow.
He fell asleep that way, on my shoulder – and I
could have killed (but not him) for a beer
or the gin that, a few hours earlier, dropped too soon
to the floor. In the morning, when I woke up, I gently
shook him and said I really had to go. He kissed
my hand, thanking me with his rotted smile
for that nothing at all between two men
who won’t ever see each other again. Outside,
a muffled light advised against any
lyrical attempt, dying among the cabbages
and junk that made his solitude less solitary.
I didn’t recognize the city: dingy, dull, shoddy.
I shivered with cold and sleepiness while boarding the first
bus and almost believed – for a few hours –
that there was someone, after all, even sadder than me.
© 2007, Richard Zenith
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