Dois poemas... um recente e outro bem mais antigo, afinal fiz 60...
As traduções para o inglês estão nominadas, mas as letra é de minha autoria.
Tradução por Ebenezer Paz
Lord
There is a long way
Through which my feet
Wounded or not
Have passed.
I could ask the reasons
For the cursed pages
To be read again
As if deja vu.
I don’t wish for full pages
Big letters
Nor marks on the wall.
I don’t even appeal to the heavens
To give me answers,
All in all, it’s only me.
And yet in a trace of a garden
I notice (understand) that loneliness hurts me,
As it did to Your son,
It (loneliness) makes me sick.
And as a son
I end up imitating
Tears
Anguish
And an escape.
I just want to know
What use it all has
Whether it makes sense
To me or anyone else,
For on this road I am
I no longer know what to do.
Therefore
In my loneliness, I say:
I am tired.
That former meaningless life I had
Before you
Knocks on my door.
Though seemingly futile,
It seems useful
In this time of pain.
The Cathedral shines
With strength
And an atmosphere of closure.
And finally
The clock
Can beat midnight.Tradução por Ebenezer Paz
Lord
There is a long way
Through which my feet
Wounded or not
Have passed.
I could ask the reasons
For the cursed pages
To be read again
As if deja vu.
I don’t wish for full pages
Big letters
Nor marks on the wall.
I don’t even appeal to the heavens
To give me answers,
All in all, it’s only me.
And yet in a trace of a garden
I notice (understand) that loneliness hurts me,
As it did to Your son,
It (loneliness) makes me sick.
And as a son
I end up imitating
Tears
Anguish
And an escape.
I just want to know
What use it all has
Whether it makes sense
To me or anyone else,
For on this road I am
I no longer know what to do.
Therefore
In my loneliness, I say:
I am tired.
That former meaningless life I had
Before you
Knocks on my door.
Though seemingly futile,
It seems useful
In this time of pain.
The Cathedral shines
With strength
And an atmosphere of closure.
And finally
The clock
Can beat midnight.
------------------------------------------
Tradução Douglas Ferreira
To be a poet
I open my copybooks and
What I see?
Just White, emptypages.
Where are those letters,
Where have they gone?
Those words, they don’t exist anymore
Where have the drafts of life gone?
Has anybody scrapped them
Or was they erased by the time?
Those were the words
Wich meant the only sense of life: LOVE.
Those were leaves that could fly away
With just a simple breeze.
Those are papers that together
Should make another “I”.
From just a few letters,
Words have been born...
From just a few words
The blow up of ideas and poesy
And in those ideas and poesies
“I”.
I turned into letters,
Drawings
And paintings.
Then in a heart
And then
In a feeling.
