Poem
Paulo Teixeira
Rosary
My lips tell the lament of your distant voice,a medal I wear on my chest, not forgotten
by the snow that wafts in my soul under a sky
dripping its light of melted wax.
Body raised on the cross, without eyes
for the last tear, hands travel over
the white stone of your face and linger
before your lips, the silence.
Smoke and whistles of farewell dig tunnels
in the landscape. I look at the lamplight hanging
over the Neva, the river’s eternal fog, and I sing
a penny of life under the alamo, by the prison walls.
Summer doesn’t enter the book of memories
of your face, my son who flies through windows;
your life is lost like an icon
in its frame. It’s not I who still awaits you,
conserving the warmth of your hands in mine;
madness inscribes in verse the delirium
of dreaming you, a shadow breathed by the afternoon
when the wind blows in Tsarskoie Selo.
In my eyelids sinks the world,
a tear. To the flesh streaked by light
in the morgue I recite the beads of my poem.
Memory is the house you left me, in Siberia.
© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
Rosário
Rosário
Soluça ao longe a tua voz, na minha boca,a medalha que trago ao peito, não a esquece
a neve, o frio que vai na alma, sob um céu
que escorre a sua luz de cera derretida.
Corpo erguido para a cruz, sem olhos
para a lágrima derradeira, passeiam as mãos
pela branca pedra do teu rosto e quedam-se
ante os teus lábios, o silêncio.
O fumo, as sirenes do adeus escavam túneis
na paisagem. Olho a lanterna imóvel sobre o Neva,
a névoa eterna sobre o rio, e canto um cêntimo
de vida sob o álamo, junto aos muros da prisão.
Não conhece verão o livro de lembranças
do teu rosto, filho meu em voo pelas janelas,
perde-se como um ícone na moldura
a tua vida. Não sou eu já quem te espera,
sustendo nas minhas o calor das tuas mãos:
a loucura escreve num verso o vão delírio
de sonhar-te, tu, sombra, murmurada pela tarde
quando passa o vento em Tsarskoie Selo.
Naufraga nas minhas pálpebras o mundo,
uma lágrima. A essa carne raiada na morgue
pela luz leio a fiada de contas do poema.
A memória é a casa que me deixaste, na Sibéria.
From: Inventário e Despedida
Publisher: Caminho,
Publisher: Caminho,
Poems
Poems of Paulo Teixeira
Close
Rosary
My lips tell the lament of your distant voice,a medal I wear on my chest, not forgotten
by the snow that wafts in my soul under a sky
dripping its light of melted wax.
Body raised on the cross, without eyes
for the last tear, hands travel over
the white stone of your face and linger
before your lips, the silence.
Smoke and whistles of farewell dig tunnels
in the landscape. I look at the lamplight hanging
over the Neva, the river’s eternal fog, and I sing
a penny of life under the alamo, by the prison walls.
Summer doesn’t enter the book of memories
of your face, my son who flies through windows;
your life is lost like an icon
in its frame. It’s not I who still awaits you,
conserving the warmth of your hands in mine;
madness inscribes in verse the delirium
of dreaming you, a shadow breathed by the afternoon
when the wind blows in Tsarskoie Selo.
In my eyelids sinks the world,
a tear. To the flesh streaked by light
in the morgue I recite the beads of my poem.
Memory is the house you left me, in Siberia.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
From: Inventário e Despedida
From: Inventário e Despedida
Rosary
My lips tell the lament of your distant voice,a medal I wear on my chest, not forgotten
by the snow that wafts in my soul under a sky
dripping its light of melted wax.
Body raised on the cross, without eyes
for the last tear, hands travel over
the white stone of your face and linger
before your lips, the silence.
Smoke and whistles of farewell dig tunnels
in the landscape. I look at the lamplight hanging
over the Neva, the river’s eternal fog, and I sing
a penny of life under the alamo, by the prison walls.
Summer doesn’t enter the book of memories
of your face, my son who flies through windows;
your life is lost like an icon
in its frame. It’s not I who still awaits you,
conserving the warmth of your hands in mine;
madness inscribes in verse the delirium
of dreaming you, a shadow breathed by the afternoon
when the wind blows in Tsarskoie Selo.
In my eyelids sinks the world,
a tear. To the flesh streaked by light
in the morgue I recite the beads of my poem.
Memory is the house you left me, in Siberia.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère