Poem
António Osório
Seed House
It’s sad not to have a seed house.It’s useless to cherish those particles lying idle
or to hope that they’ll nest without sleet
and erupt like the flame of a candle.
It’s sad to pay money for what naturally grows,
sad that berseem loses its sorrel colour in the soil,
and that Persian clover feeds the mouths of cattle.
It’s sad they don’t reject that profuse, prodigious,
stubborn servitude, that vitality in love with the sun,
and don’t add up what they’re owed, like a peasant,
demanding wages for the machinations of God and men.
© Translation: 2008, Richard Zenith
CASA DAS SEMENTES
CASA DAS SEMENTES
É triste não possuir uma casa de sementes.Não adianta amar essas partículas ali ociosas,
nem desejar que nidifiquem sem granizo
e irrompam como a chama de uma vela.
É triste pagar um preço pelo que há-de nascer,
que o bersim perca a cor alazã penetrando na terra
e o trevo da Pérsia alimente a boca das reses.
É triste que não recusem essa densa, pródiga,
obstinada servidão, a vitalidade apaixonada pelo sol,
e não façam, como um camponês, as suas contas,
exigindo a Deus e aos homens o salário da maquinação.
© 1978, António Osório
From: A ignorância da morte
Publisher: Author\'s edition, Lisbon
From: A ignorância da morte
Publisher: Author\'s edition, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of António Osório
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Seed House
It’s sad not to have a seed house.It’s useless to cherish those particles lying idle
or to hope that they’ll nest without sleet
and erupt like the flame of a candle.
It’s sad to pay money for what naturally grows,
sad that berseem loses its sorrel colour in the soil,
and that Persian clover feeds the mouths of cattle.
It’s sad they don’t reject that profuse, prodigious,
stubborn servitude, that vitality in love with the sun,
and don’t add up what they’re owed, like a peasant,
demanding wages for the machinations of God and men.
© 2008, Richard Zenith
From: A ignorância da morte
From: A ignorância da morte
Seed House
It’s sad not to have a seed house.It’s useless to cherish those particles lying idle
or to hope that they’ll nest without sleet
and erupt like the flame of a candle.
It’s sad to pay money for what naturally grows,
sad that berseem loses its sorrel colour in the soil,
and that Persian clover feeds the mouths of cattle.
It’s sad they don’t reject that profuse, prodigious,
stubborn servitude, that vitality in love with the sun,
and don’t add up what they’re owed, like a peasant,
demanding wages for the machinations of God and men.
© 2008, Richard Zenith
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