Poem
Nuno Júdice
The Golden Age
A curve in time, like a curve in a road,veers man from his old way. The landscape
suddenly changes: wooden houses, the black
covering of the bridge, the green of the
fields. He sits on a rock. He doesn’t know
where he is. He can’t hear the voice calling
from the depths for him to return.
He knows he can advance
if his eyes do not fix
upon the known. Without moving
he senses a transformation that makes
what’s strange discernible
and familiar. And so he returns
to the rigour the gods stole
with the first scream.
Other men, meanwhile, advance
across this landscape, knocking down
fences. They have hoes, sickles, faces
blanched from insomnia. Some
laugh. And they sing when the land
opens in furrows that climb
the hills, go down the hills,
and are lost across the plains.
Perhaps one day
they will meet.
© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
A idade do ouro
A idade do ouro
Uma curva no tempo, como num caminho,desvia o homem da direcção antiga. De súbito,
uma paisagem diferente: casas de madeira,
a cobertura negra da ponte, o verde dos
campos. Aí, senta-se numa pedra; não sabe
onde está; nem ouve que o chamam,
do fundo, para que regresse.
Ele sabe que pode avançar,
se os olhos não fixarem
a imagem conhecida. Imóvel,
uma transformação faz com que
as coisas estranhas se tornem perceptíveis
e familiares. Assim, regressa ao rigor
que os deuses lhe roubaram
com o grito inicial.
Porém, outros homens avançam
por essa paisagem, deitando abaixo
os muros. Têm foices, enxadas, rostos
embranquecidos pela vigília. Riem,
uns; e cantam, quando a terra
se abre em sulcos que sobem
os montes, descem colinas,
e se perdem na planície.
Um dia,
talvez se encontrem.
© 1994, Nuno Júdice
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
Publisher: Quetzal, Lisboa
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
Publisher: Quetzal, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of Nuno Júdice
Close
The Golden Age
A curve in time, like a curve in a road,veers man from his old way. The landscape
suddenly changes: wooden houses, the black
covering of the bridge, the green of the
fields. He sits on a rock. He doesn’t know
where he is. He can’t hear the voice calling
from the depths for him to return.
He knows he can advance
if his eyes do not fix
upon the known. Without moving
he senses a transformation that makes
what’s strange discernible
and familiar. And so he returns
to the rigour the gods stole
with the first scream.
Other men, meanwhile, advance
across this landscape, knocking down
fences. They have hoes, sickles, faces
blanched from insomnia. Some
laugh. And they sing when the land
opens in furrows that climb
the hills, go down the hills,
and are lost across the plains.
Perhaps one day
they will meet.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
From: Meditação sobre ruínas
The Golden Age
A curve in time, like a curve in a road,veers man from his old way. The landscape
suddenly changes: wooden houses, the black
covering of the bridge, the green of the
fields. He sits on a rock. He doesn’t know
where he is. He can’t hear the voice calling
from the depths for him to return.
He knows he can advance
if his eyes do not fix
upon the known. Without moving
he senses a transformation that makes
what’s strange discernible
and familiar. And so he returns
to the rigour the gods stole
with the first scream.
Other men, meanwhile, advance
across this landscape, knocking down
fences. They have hoes, sickles, faces
blanched from insomnia. Some
laugh. And they sing when the land
opens in furrows that climb
the hills, go down the hills,
and are lost across the plains.
Perhaps one day
they will meet.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
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