A Flor e a Náusea
Preso à minha classe e a algumas roupas, vou de branco pela rua cinzenta.
Melancolias, mercadorias, espreitam-me.
Devo seguir até o enjôo?
Posso, sem armas, revoltar-me?
Olhos sujos no relógio da torre:
Não, o tempo não chegou de completa justiça.
O tempo é ainda de fezes, maus poemas, alucinações e espera.
O tempo pobre, o poeta pobre
fundem-se no mesmo impasse.
Em vão me tento explicar, os muros são surdos.
Sob a pele das palavras há cifras e códigos.
O sol consola os doentes e não os renova.
As coisas. Que tristes são as coisas, consideradas sem ênfase.
Vomitar este tédio sobre a cidade.
Quarenta anos e nenhum problema
resolvido, sequer colocado.
Nenhuma carta escrita nem recebida.
Todos os homens voltam para casa.
Estão menos livres mas levam jornais
e soletram o mundo, sabendo que o perdem.
Crimes da terra, como perdoá-los?
Tomei parte em muitos, outros escondi.
Alguns achei belos, foram publicados.
Crimes suaves, que ajudam a viver.
Ração diária de erro, distribuída em casa.
Os ferozes padeiros do mal.
Os ferozes leiteiros do mal.
Pôr fogo em tudo, inclusive em mim.
Ao menino de 1918 chamavam anarquista.
Porém meu ódio é o melhor de mim.
Com ele me salvo
e dou a poucos uma esperança mínima.
Uma flor nasceu na rua!
Passem de longe, bondes, ônibus, rio de aço do tráfego.
Uma flor ainda desbotada
ilude a polícia, rompe o asfalto.
Façam completo silêncio, paralisem os negócios,
garanto que uma flor nasceu.
Sua cor não se percebe.
Suas pétalas não se abrem.
Seu nome não está nos livros.
É feia. Mas é realmente uma flor.
Sento-me no chão da capital do país às cinco horas da tarde
e lentamente passo a mão nessa forma insegura.
Do lado das montanhas, nuvens maciças avolumam-se.
Pequenos pontos brancos movem-se no mar, galinhas em pânico.
É feia. Mas é uma flor. Furou o asfalto, o tédio, o nojo e o ódio.
(do site A Magia da Poesia)
The Flower and the Nausea
Imprisoned by my class and my clothes
I go in white through the gray street
melancholy men, shopkeepers peer at me.
Should I continue until I sicken?
Can I, unarmed, be revolted?
Dirty eyes on the clock tower:
No, the time has not come for full justice
It is still the time of excrement, bad poems, hallucinations and hope
The poor time, the poor poet
Stuck in the same impasse
[In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf]
Under the skin of words there are ciphers and codes
The sun consoles the sick and does not renew them
The things. How sad are things, considered out of context
They’ll vomit this tedium across the city
[Forty years and not a single problem
resolved, not even close]
Not a single letter written nor received.
All the men return home
They are less free but they carry newspapers
and decipher the world, knowing that they’ve lost it.
Crimes of the earth, how does it forgive them?
I took part in many, from others I hid
Some I thought were beautiful, they were published
Gentle crimes, that helped me live
The daily ration of error, distributed at home
The feral bakers of evil
The feral milkmen of evil
Set it all aflame, including myself
To the boy of 1918 they called an anarchist
[However, my hate is better than me
With it I save myself
and give at least a little faint hope]
[A flower rose from the street!
Far away they pass by, trams, buses, rivers of steel traffic
A flower, though faded
Evades the police, breaks the asphalt
Be completely silent, stop your business
I assure you that a flower rose
Its color is unnoticed
Its petals don’t open
Its name is not in the books
It is ugly. But it is truly a flower
[I sit on the ground in the country’s capital at five in the afternoon and lightly pass my hand over this frail thing.]
Beside the mountains, dense clouds swell
Little white points dance on the surface of the sea, startled chickens
[It is ugly. But it is a flower. It pierced the asphalt, the boredom, the disgust and the hate]
(site: Brazil for Poets)
I go in white through the gray street
melancholy men, shopkeepers peer at me.
Should I continue until I sicken?
Can I, unarmed, be revolted?
Dirty eyes on the clock tower:
No, the time has not come for full justice
It is still the time of excrement, bad poems, hallucinations and hope
The poor time, the poor poet
Stuck in the same impasse
[In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf]
Under the skin of words there are ciphers and codes
The sun consoles the sick and does not renew them
The things. How sad are things, considered out of context
They’ll vomit this tedium across the city
[Forty years and not a single problem
resolved, not even close]
Not a single letter written nor received.
All the men return home
They are less free but they carry newspapers
and decipher the world, knowing that they’ve lost it.
Crimes of the earth, how does it forgive them?
I took part in many, from others I hid
Some I thought were beautiful, they were published
Gentle crimes, that helped me live
The daily ration of error, distributed at home
The feral bakers of evil
The feral milkmen of evil
Set it all aflame, including myself
To the boy of 1918 they called an anarchist
[However, my hate is better than me
With it I save myself
and give at least a little faint hope]
[A flower rose from the street!
Far away they pass by, trams, buses, rivers of steel traffic
A flower, though faded
Evades the police, breaks the asphalt
Be completely silent, stop your business
I assure you that a flower rose
Its color is unnoticed
Its petals don’t open
Its name is not in the books
It is ugly. But it is truly a flower
[I sit on the ground in the country’s capital at five in the afternoon and lightly pass my hand over this frail thing.]
Beside the mountains, dense clouds swell
Little white points dance on the surface of the sea, startled chickens
[It is ugly. But it is a flower. It pierced the asphalt, the boredom, the disgust and the hate]
(site: Brazil for Poets)
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