Poem
Teixeira de Pascoaes
FINAL ELEGY
I sculpted as best I could my sorrow:A black marble block that weighs on me
And bathes me in an icy sweat.
I imposed beauty on that rough stone.
The bitter water of my tears
Softened its tragic rigidity.
And when I saw my anguish raised
Into a perfect statue in the blessed sun,
I touched it! It was frozen and inert!
I inwardly weep! I sob and shout!
In this book I’m pallor and grief.
The sorrow that lives in my troubled self
Is so much dead ash in my song.
© Translation: 2005, Richard Zenith
Elegia Final
Elegia Final
Trabalhei quanto pude a minha dor– Negro bloco marmóreo que me pesa
E me inunda de gélido suor.
Impus ao bruto mármore a beleza.
Minhas lágrimas de água amargurada
Suavizaram-lhe a trágica dureza.
E, ao ver a minha angústia alevantada
Numa estátua perfeita, ao sol bendito,
Toquei-lhe! Estava inerte e congelada!
Choro dentro de mim! Soluço e grito!
Sou neste livro palidez, quebranto.
A dor tão viva no meu ser aflito
É como cinza morta neste canto.
© 1912, Teixeira de Pascoaes
From: Elegias
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
From: Elegias
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Teixeira de Pascoaes
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FINAL ELEGY
I sculpted as best I could my sorrow:A black marble block that weighs on me
And bathes me in an icy sweat.
I imposed beauty on that rough stone.
The bitter water of my tears
Softened its tragic rigidity.
And when I saw my anguish raised
Into a perfect statue in the blessed sun,
I touched it! It was frozen and inert!
I inwardly weep! I sob and shout!
In this book I’m pallor and grief.
The sorrow that lives in my troubled self
Is so much dead ash in my song.
© 2005, Richard Zenith
From: Elegias
From: Elegias
FINAL ELEGY
I sculpted as best I could my sorrow:A black marble block that weighs on me
And bathes me in an icy sweat.
I imposed beauty on that rough stone.
The bitter water of my tears
Softened its tragic rigidity.
And when I saw my anguish raised
Into a perfect statue in the blessed sun,
I touched it! It was frozen and inert!
I inwardly weep! I sob and shout!
In this book I’m pallor and grief.
The sorrow that lives in my troubled self
Is so much dead ash in my song.
© 2005, Richard Zenith
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