quarta-feira, 23 de janeiro de 2013

Coimbra, August 24, 1988. in Relação de Bordo. english version.

"Coimbra, August 24, 1988 - The phone turned mute. The postman does not call, not even once. The wind does not stop. Medicine does not medicate. The headache does not wane. The sun forgot its trade and took a day off. Silence can neither be built nor can it destroy me. Music does not soothe. The newspapers scream that they do not want to be read. Hope does not flounce. The heat has cold. The cold has hunger. The hunger is thirsty. The thirst became sated. The ideas became bleached. The words became demented in a hospice of greenish mildew. The book is crisscrossed in the uterus and does not ask to be born. Friends are dying. The war is born from the innards of black gold. The children refuse to make children and leave no heirs. The daughters likewise, ditto between quotes. Poetry turned tick in a puppy’s fur. Literature got luckier and became part of a coterie. Rain forgot to get soaked. The body is a cup without any spirit of drinking. The eyes committed suicide. The mouth dropped down on the garbage. The hours do not pray. The minutes do not minute nor do they let make minutes for the draft of a dream. The sun became soiled. The frightened sky came down. The nightmare did not get frightened. The dream stopped. The eyes nodded off. The hands asked for reminiscence with interest since they do not pay default interest. The legs became pillars atop the feet. The feet asked for a truce and do not tap-dance. The tap-dance dances on a faraway floor. The faraway distance is still a part of the corseted share. Nostalgia is an island surrounded by you. The island came to sleep in your bed and got betrothed there. The dead do not get tired of living nor the living of decaying. Death rides a horse on the hands of the clock. The clock feigns to walk, but actually gallops. The days gasp in night horses. The night writhes in the fallen twilight. Clouds clogged our travelling roads. The journey missed the ship and stayed behind at the pier. The train does not stop at the way station that befits me. The ticket that I pulled has a false date. All dates are false; especially the anniversaries’. To anniversary is the conjunctive tense of a non-conjugated indefinite tense. I keep on waiting in front of the mirror for my mirrored image to metamorphose into your image so that I can retire into it... Love does not get tired. So be it!" CRISTÓVÃO DE AGUIAR Relação de Bordo (vol. 1). Porto, Campo das Letras, 1999, pp. 412-413.

1 comentário:

Anónimo disse...

tem uns erros valentes. mas não deixa de ser um voluntarioso exercício.

Cyrano de Bergerac

Cyrano de Bergerac
Eugénio Macedo - 1995


A Cristóvão de Aguiar, junto
do qual este poema começou a nascer.

Atlântico até onde chega o olhar.
E o resto é lava
e flores.
Não há palavra
com tanto mar
como a palavra Açores.

Manuel Alegre
Pico 27.07.2006