Poem
A. M. Pires Cabral
COMPUTER IN THE TRASH
Here lies a computerin the trash. And yet
its tin brain contained memory
– gigabytes of it! –, performed
the four mathematical operations
and accepted verses
on its immaculate
virtual whiteness.
Now it can no longer add
or subtract,
nor groan out poems, nor underline
misspelled words.
The droplets of solder, precarious
metal neurons,
have lost their memory.
Tell me, brother,
since you got there first,
what it’s like not to function.
And if the rust is painful.
© Translation: 2008, Richard Zenith
COMPUTADOR NO LIXO
COMPUTADOR NO LIXO
Eis um computadorno lixo. E todavia
o crânio de lata teve memória dentro
– gigabytes dela! –,
fez as quatro operações,
aceitou versos
no seu imaculado
branco virtual.
Agora já não soma
nem subtrai,
nem geme poemas, nem sublinha
erros de ortografia.
Os pingos de solda, precários
neurónios de metal,
perderam a memória.
Já que te antecipaste,
companheiro,
diz-me como é não funcionar.
E se a ferrugem dói.
© 2003, A. M. Pires Cabral
From: Como se Bosch Tivesse Enlouquecido
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisboa
From: Como se Bosch Tivesse Enlouquecido
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of A. M. Pires Cabral
Close
COMPUTER IN THE TRASH
Here lies a computerin the trash. And yet
its tin brain contained memory
– gigabytes of it! –, performed
the four mathematical operations
and accepted verses
on its immaculate
virtual whiteness.
Now it can no longer add
or subtract,
nor groan out poems, nor underline
misspelled words.
The droplets of solder, precarious
metal neurons,
have lost their memory.
Tell me, brother,
since you got there first,
what it’s like not to function.
And if the rust is painful.
© 2008, Richard Zenith
From: Como se Bosch Tivesse Enlouquecido
From: Como se Bosch Tivesse Enlouquecido
COMPUTER IN THE TRASH
Here lies a computerin the trash. And yet
its tin brain contained memory
– gigabytes of it! –, performed
the four mathematical operations
and accepted verses
on its immaculate
virtual whiteness.
Now it can no longer add
or subtract,
nor groan out poems, nor underline
misspelled words.
The droplets of solder, precarious
metal neurons,
have lost their memory.
Tell me, brother,
since you got there first,
what it’s like not to function.
And if the rust is painful.
© 2008, Richard Zenith
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