Poem
Paulo Teixeira
Adam
You sit on the threshold of dayswith only the politeness of your gestures.
A window opens your life onto the landscape,
cliffs where for a moment your gaze lingers
under the arched vault of the sky, whose eyelids
lower for you at night, before sleep comes.
If only there weren’t the moon, lying
at your side like a corpse! In vain
your arms swing against its gleaming sword
as if dreaming to deny the world around you:
the leaves that break the air to speak with you
an alphabet, the wind that weaves lace
over the sea, a willow that bends
its knee as if for the office of eventide,
and reeds that weigh wishes as they idly bow
to you who arrive and depart, without words,
as an owl’s beak probes the darkness.
Why speak? All is already known to the steps
you shed over the childhood of these paths,
scanning the future in the stars on high.
Why write your name there? No one
will miss you in the certainty of a world
you cannot come back to – you, the guest
of honour at the grand finale of everything,
waiting to join with the rest your ashes in the fire.
© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
Adão
Adão
Estás sentado na soleira dos diassó com a cortesia dos teus gestos.
Uma janela abra à paisagem a tua vida,
fragas onde repousas um momento o olhar
sob o arco de abóbada do céu, ele que por ti
fecha à noite as pálpebras, antes do sono.
Se pudesses não ser sob a lua, dormindo
a teu lado como um cadáver! Em vão
esgrimem os teus braços a espada da sua luz
como quem sonha negar o mundo à sua volta:
as folhas que instituem para contigo falar
um alfabeto, o vento que se dedica a trabalhos
de renda sobre o mar, um salgueiro que dobra
os joelhos como pelo ofício das tardes
e os juncos que vacilam uma vontade na vénia inútil
a ti que chegas, a ti que partes, sem palavras,
o bico de um mocho indicando as trevas.
Para quê falar? Já tudo sabem esses passos
que derramas sobre a infância dos caminhos,
perscrutando a sina das estrelas no alto.
Para quê inscrever aí o teu nome? Ninguém
sentirá a falta, na certeza de um mundo
a que não podereis regressar, tu, convidado
de honra para assistires ao fim de tudo,
esperas unir aos outros no incêndio as tuas cinzas.
From: Inventário e despedida
Publisher: Caminho, Lisboa
Publisher: Caminho, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of Paulo Teixeira
Close
Adam
You sit on the threshold of dayswith only the politeness of your gestures.
A window opens your life onto the landscape,
cliffs where for a moment your gaze lingers
under the arched vault of the sky, whose eyelids
lower for you at night, before sleep comes.
If only there weren’t the moon, lying
at your side like a corpse! In vain
your arms swing against its gleaming sword
as if dreaming to deny the world around you:
the leaves that break the air to speak with you
an alphabet, the wind that weaves lace
over the sea, a willow that bends
its knee as if for the office of eventide,
and reeds that weigh wishes as they idly bow
to you who arrive and depart, without words,
as an owl’s beak probes the darkness.
Why speak? All is already known to the steps
you shed over the childhood of these paths,
scanning the future in the stars on high.
Why write your name there? No one
will miss you in the certainty of a world
you cannot come back to – you, the guest
of honour at the grand finale of everything,
waiting to join with the rest your ashes in the fire.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
From: Inventário e despedida
From: Inventário e despedida
Adam
You sit on the threshold of dayswith only the politeness of your gestures.
A window opens your life onto the landscape,
cliffs where for a moment your gaze lingers
under the arched vault of the sky, whose eyelids
lower for you at night, before sleep comes.
If only there weren’t the moon, lying
at your side like a corpse! In vain
your arms swing against its gleaming sword
as if dreaming to deny the world around you:
the leaves that break the air to speak with you
an alphabet, the wind that weaves lace
over the sea, a willow that bends
its knee as if for the office of eventide,
and reeds that weigh wishes as they idly bow
to you who arrive and depart, without words,
as an owl’s beak probes the darkness.
Why speak? All is already known to the steps
you shed over the childhood of these paths,
scanning the future in the stars on high.
Why write your name there? No one
will miss you in the certainty of a world
you cannot come back to – you, the guest
of honour at the grand finale of everything,
waiting to join with the rest your ashes in the fire.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
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