Poem
António Franco Alexandre
Dwelling Places III (9)
And I could give youa cellophane floor where waves would slide
on cool nights,
four cage-coloured walls, and flawless
marble teeth. Love would enter
the scene on blind wings,
and honey, houseflies and the rest
would all be ways for us to stave off death.
Birds would grow in the place of fruits, fooled
by the relentless exaltation of rhyme,
and I might even know how to be sad
without a dog or proverbs,
with my blank eyes looking up, as if sleeping
on the dull blade of a jack-knife.
Terceiras Moradas (9)
Terceiras Moradas (9)
E poderia dar-teum chão de celofane, onde desliza a onda
em noite fresca;
quatro paredes, pintadas de gaiola,
e o implacável mármore dos dentes. Amor viria
de asas cegas no recorte,
e o mel, as moscas, tudo nos seria
maneira de afastar a morte.
E cresceriam aves no lugar dos frutos, enganados
pela contínua exaltação da rima;
e saberia, acaso, até como ser triste
sem provérbio nem cão,
de olhos brancos no ar, como quem dorme
na romba lâmina de um canivete.
© 1996, António Franco Alexandre
From: Poemas
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim,
From: Poemas
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim,
Poems
Poems of António Franco Alexandre
Close
Dwelling Places III (9)
And I could give youa cellophane floor where waves would slide
on cool nights,
four cage-coloured walls, and flawless
marble teeth. Love would enter
the scene on blind wings,
and honey, houseflies and the rest
would all be ways for us to stave off death.
Birds would grow in the place of fruits, fooled
by the relentless exaltation of rhyme,
and I might even know how to be sad
without a dog or proverbs,
with my blank eyes looking up, as if sleeping
on the dull blade of a jack-knife.
From: Poemas
Dwelling Places III (9)
And I could give youa cellophane floor where waves would slide
on cool nights,
four cage-coloured walls, and flawless
marble teeth. Love would enter
the scene on blind wings,
and honey, houseflies and the rest
would all be ways for us to stave off death.
Birds would grow in the place of fruits, fooled
by the relentless exaltation of rhyme,
and I might even know how to be sad
without a dog or proverbs,
with my blank eyes looking up, as if sleeping
on the dull blade of a jack-knife.
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