Poem
Ruy Belo
HAND TO THE PLOW
Happy the man who manages sadness wiselyand learns to divide it among the days
Though months and years pass it will never leave him
How sad it is to grow old on the doorstep
while weaving in our hands a belated heart
How sad to risk against human returns
the blue equilibrium of summer’s sheer mornings
by the ocean that overflows with us
in the long farewell of our condition
It is sad to see in the garden the sun’s solitude
reaching from the city’s houses and din
to a distant hint of river
and the meager life meted out to us
It is sadder to have to be born and to die
and to have trees at the end of the street
It is sad to go through life as if
returning and to enter humbly into death by mistake
It is sad in autumn to conclude that summer
was the only season
The wind passed by in solidarity and we didn’t see it
and we didn’t know to go to the green depths
like rivers that know where to find the sea
and know which bridges which streets which people which hills to talk with
through the words of a forever uttered water
But what’s saddest is to remember tomorrow’s acts
It is sad to buy chestnuts after the bullfight
between sunday and the smoke on a november afternoon
and to have asphalt and many people for your future
and behind you a life with no childhood
looking back at all of this some time later
Day by day the afternoon dies
It is very sad to walk among God and be absent
But manage, poet, your sadness wisely
© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
A Mão no Arado
A Mão no Arado
Feliz aquele que administra sabiamentea tristeza e aprende a reparti-la pelos dias
Podem passar os meses e os anos nunca lhe faltará
Oh! como é triste envelhecer à porta
entretecer nas mãos um coração tardio
Oh! como é triste arriscar em humanos regressos
o equilíbrio azul das extremas manhãs do verão
ao longo do mar transbordante de nós
no demorado adeus da nossa condição
É triste no jardim a solidão do sol
vê-lo desde o rumor e as casas da cidade
até uma vaga promessa de rio
e a pequenina vida que se concede às unhas
Mais triste é termos de nascer e morrer
e haver árvores ao fim da rua
É triste ir pela vida como quem
regressa e entrar humildemente por engano pela morte dentro
É triste no outono concluir
que era o verão a única estação
Passou o solidário vento e não o conhecemos
e não soubemos ir até ao fundo da verdura
como rios que sabem onde encontrar o mar
e com que pontes com que ruas com que gentes com que montes conviver
através de palavras de uma água para sempre dita
Mas o mais triste é recordar os gestos de amanhã
Triste é comprar castanhas depois da tourada
entre o fumo e o domingo na tarde de novembro
e ter como futuro o asfalto e muita gente
e atrás a vida sem nenhuma infância
revendo tudo isto algum tempo depois
A tarde morre pelos dias fora
É muito triste andar por entre Deus ausente
Mas, ó poeta, administra a tristeza sabiamente
© 1962, Ruy Belo
From: Todos os Poemas
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
From: Todos os Poemas
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Ruy Belo
Close
HAND TO THE PLOW
Happy the man who manages sadness wiselyand learns to divide it among the days
Though months and years pass it will never leave him
How sad it is to grow old on the doorstep
while weaving in our hands a belated heart
How sad to risk against human returns
the blue equilibrium of summer’s sheer mornings
by the ocean that overflows with us
in the long farewell of our condition
It is sad to see in the garden the sun’s solitude
reaching from the city’s houses and din
to a distant hint of river
and the meager life meted out to us
It is sadder to have to be born and to die
and to have trees at the end of the street
It is sad to go through life as if
returning and to enter humbly into death by mistake
It is sad in autumn to conclude that summer
was the only season
The wind passed by in solidarity and we didn’t see it
and we didn’t know to go to the green depths
like rivers that know where to find the sea
and know which bridges which streets which people which hills to talk with
through the words of a forever uttered water
But what’s saddest is to remember tomorrow’s acts
It is sad to buy chestnuts after the bullfight
between sunday and the smoke on a november afternoon
and to have asphalt and many people for your future
and behind you a life with no childhood
looking back at all of this some time later
Day by day the afternoon dies
It is very sad to walk among God and be absent
But manage, poet, your sadness wisely
© 1997, Richard Zenith
From: Todos os Poemas
From: Todos os Poemas
HAND TO THE PLOW
Happy the man who manages sadness wiselyand learns to divide it among the days
Though months and years pass it will never leave him
How sad it is to grow old on the doorstep
while weaving in our hands a belated heart
How sad to risk against human returns
the blue equilibrium of summer’s sheer mornings
by the ocean that overflows with us
in the long farewell of our condition
It is sad to see in the garden the sun’s solitude
reaching from the city’s houses and din
to a distant hint of river
and the meager life meted out to us
It is sadder to have to be born and to die
and to have trees at the end of the street
It is sad to go through life as if
returning and to enter humbly into death by mistake
It is sad in autumn to conclude that summer
was the only season
The wind passed by in solidarity and we didn’t see it
and we didn’t know to go to the green depths
like rivers that know where to find the sea
and know which bridges which streets which people which hills to talk with
through the words of a forever uttered water
But what’s saddest is to remember tomorrow’s acts
It is sad to buy chestnuts after the bullfight
between sunday and the smoke on a november afternoon
and to have asphalt and many people for your future
and behind you a life with no childhood
looking back at all of this some time later
Day by day the afternoon dies
It is very sad to walk among God and be absent
But manage, poet, your sadness wisely
© 1997, Richard Zenith
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