Poem
Nuno Júdice
Meditation on Ruins
He disembarked in a living room without chairs or gilt mouldings:just rotting beams, vases with plastic flowers, windows
whose broken panes looked out onto the highway. No wind,
no sea: only the sound of cars entering through the cracks
to echo on the ceiling (rafters showing through the stucco
remains). Outside he hung on to the rusted rails
of decrepit balconies. He discerned, through the underbrush
that was overrunning everything, a landscape worthy
of a Romantic painting. The houses covering the valley and
the hills taken over by scrap iron hide a past
with flocks and shepherds. But perhaps the flute’s song
was never heard here. Indeed, this house conserves nothing
but ancient silences, which the using has transformed into sepia
spots in memory. Now they’re blended into the colour of the walls
and harbour only dens of scarcely discernible reptiles,
in winter, hidden from the universe. But someone was here
very recently. And a pile of wood still smokes as
the sun ascends from the horizon, where dawn’s cold colours
do not dissipate, and no bird greets
the new day.
© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
Meditação sobre ruínas
Meditação sobre ruínas
Desembarcou numa sala sem dourados nem cadeiras:madeiras velhas, jarras com flores de plástico, janelas
de vidros partidos para a auto-estrada. Nem vento,
nem mar: só o ruído dos carros entrava pelas fendas
para ecoar no tecto (madeiras à vista entre os restos
de estuque). Depois, na rua, pendurou-se nos ferros podres
de antigas varandas. Percebia-se, por entre os arbustos
que invadiam tudo, uma vista que teria sido digna
de um quadro romântico. O vale, coberto de casas, e
os montes invadidos por ferro-velho, ocultam um passado
de rebanhos e pastores. Mas talvez não se tenha ouvido aqui
a música da flauta. Com efeito, esta casa limita-se
a guardar antigos silêncios, que o uso transformou em manchas
sépia na memória. Agora, confundem-se com a cor das paredes;
e só abrigam tocas répteis, que apenas se adivinham,
no inverno, escondidos do universo. Mas alguém passou por aqui,
há pouco; e um monte de madeira fumega, ainda, enquanto
o sol avança a partir do nascente, onde as cores frias
da madrugada não se dissipam, nem pássaro algum saúda
o nascer do dia.
© 1994, Nuno Júdice
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
Publisher: Quetzal, Lisboa
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
Publisher: Quetzal, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of Nuno Júdice
Close
Meditation on Ruins
He disembarked in a living room without chairs or gilt mouldings:just rotting beams, vases with plastic flowers, windows
whose broken panes looked out onto the highway. No wind,
no sea: only the sound of cars entering through the cracks
to echo on the ceiling (rafters showing through the stucco
remains). Outside he hung on to the rusted rails
of decrepit balconies. He discerned, through the underbrush
that was overrunning everything, a landscape worthy
of a Romantic painting. The houses covering the valley and
the hills taken over by scrap iron hide a past
with flocks and shepherds. But perhaps the flute’s song
was never heard here. Indeed, this house conserves nothing
but ancient silences, which the using has transformed into sepia
spots in memory. Now they’re blended into the colour of the walls
and harbour only dens of scarcely discernible reptiles,
in winter, hidden from the universe. But someone was here
very recently. And a pile of wood still smokes as
the sun ascends from the horizon, where dawn’s cold colours
do not dissipate, and no bird greets
the new day.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
Meditation on Ruins
He disembarked in a living room without chairs or gilt mouldings:just rotting beams, vases with plastic flowers, windows
whose broken panes looked out onto the highway. No wind,
no sea: only the sound of cars entering through the cracks
to echo on the ceiling (rafters showing through the stucco
remains). Outside he hung on to the rusted rails
of decrepit balconies. He discerned, through the underbrush
that was overrunning everything, a landscape worthy
of a Romantic painting. The houses covering the valley and
the hills taken over by scrap iron hide a past
with flocks and shepherds. But perhaps the flute’s song
was never heard here. Indeed, this house conserves nothing
but ancient silences, which the using has transformed into sepia
spots in memory. Now they’re blended into the colour of the walls
and harbour only dens of scarcely discernible reptiles,
in winter, hidden from the universe. But someone was here
very recently. And a pile of wood still smokes as
the sun ascends from the horizon, where dawn’s cold colours
do not dissipate, and no bird greets
the new day.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
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