Poem
Manuel António Pina
In a Station of the Metro
My childhood passed and I was not there.Thinking of something else, gazing in another direction.
The best years of my life lost to distraction.
Where is she now, Rosalinda, of the rosy thighs?
Belinda, Brunhilda, Kriemhilda, who could they be?
Teachers of German, most probably,
in some far-off middle school that lies
beyond our time and space. Long ago, today,
he would have loved them with a shameless fire,
as in a dirty dream of wild love and teen desire
from which someone awoke the other day.
For all was memory, stray traces
of what happened years ago, and he,
remembering, was also just a memory,
a face now fading among other faces.
Seen from here, from recollection now,
my life’s a multitude, a murky chain
where I, (who could he be?), seek in vain
my face, a petal on a wet, black bough.
© Translation: 2008, Alexis Levitin
NUMA ESTAÇÃO DE METRO
NUMA ESTAÇÃO DE METRO
A minha juventude passou e eu não estava lá.Pensava em outra coisa, olhava noutra direcção.
Os melhores anos da minha vida perdidos por distracção!
Rosalinda, a das róseas coxas, onde está?
Belinda, Brunilda, Cremilda, quem serão?
Provavelmente professoras de Alemão
em colégios fora do tempo e do espa-
ço! Hoje, antigamente, ele tê-las-ia
amado de um amor imprudente e impudente,
como num sujo sonho adolescente
de que alguém, no outro dia, acordaria.
Pois tudo era memória, acontecia
há muitos anos, e quem se lembrava
era também memória que passava,
um rosto que entre outros rostos se perdia.
Agora, vista daqui, da recordação,
a minha vida é uma multidão
onde, não sei quem, em vão procuro
o meu rosto, pétala dum ramo húmido, escuro.
© 1991, Manuel António Pina
From: Um sítio onde pousar a cabeça
Publisher: Author\'s edition, Porto
From: Um sítio onde pousar a cabeça
Publisher: Author\'s edition, Porto
Poems
Poems of Manuel António Pina
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In a Station of the Metro
My childhood passed and I was not there.Thinking of something else, gazing in another direction.
The best years of my life lost to distraction.
Where is she now, Rosalinda, of the rosy thighs?
Belinda, Brunhilda, Kriemhilda, who could they be?
Teachers of German, most probably,
in some far-off middle school that lies
beyond our time and space. Long ago, today,
he would have loved them with a shameless fire,
as in a dirty dream of wild love and teen desire
from which someone awoke the other day.
For all was memory, stray traces
of what happened years ago, and he,
remembering, was also just a memory,
a face now fading among other faces.
Seen from here, from recollection now,
my life’s a multitude, a murky chain
where I, (who could he be?), seek in vain
my face, a petal on a wet, black bough.
© 2008, Alexis Levitin
From: Um sítio onde pousar a cabeça
From: Um sítio onde pousar a cabeça
In a Station of the Metro
My childhood passed and I was not there.Thinking of something else, gazing in another direction.
The best years of my life lost to distraction.
Where is she now, Rosalinda, of the rosy thighs?
Belinda, Brunhilda, Kriemhilda, who could they be?
Teachers of German, most probably,
in some far-off middle school that lies
beyond our time and space. Long ago, today,
he would have loved them with a shameless fire,
as in a dirty dream of wild love and teen desire
from which someone awoke the other day.
For all was memory, stray traces
of what happened years ago, and he,
remembering, was also just a memory,
a face now fading among other faces.
Seen from here, from recollection now,
my life’s a multitude, a murky chain
where I, (who could he be?), seek in vain
my face, a petal on a wet, black bough.
© 2008, Alexis Levitin
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