They are like a crystal,
words.
Some a dagger,
some a blaze.
Others,
merely dew.
Secret they come, full of memory.
Insecurely they sail:
cockleboats or kisses,
the waters trembling.
Abandoned, innocent,
weightless.
They are woven of light.
They are the night.
And even pallid
they recall green paradise.
Who hears them? Who
gathers them, thus,
cruel, shapeless,
in their pure shells?
Translation: 1985, Alexis Levitin, Inhabited Heart
Perivale Press, Los Angeles, 1985
São como um cristal,
as palavras.
Algumas, um punhal,
um incêndio.
Outras,
orvalho apenas.
Secretas vêm, cheias de memória.
Inseguras navegam:
barcos ou beijos,
as águas estremecem.
Desamparadas, inocentes,
leves.
Tecidas são de luz
e são a noite.
E mesmo pálidas
verdes paraísos lembram ainda.
Quem as escuta? Quem
as recolhe, assim,
cruéis, desfeitas,
nas suas conchas puras?
Eugénio de Andrade, Coração do Dia
Limiar, Porto, 1958
Photo: Point Omega by Don Delillo (sometimes I’m too lazy to take notes)
Stories from A Closet of Errors 