Mostly Music
sábado, dezembro 14
SINCE THIS IS A BILINGUAL BLOG...
Epitaph
The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.
I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.
I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.
The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.
They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.
And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.
Dorothy Parker
XVII
Da vez primeira em que me assassinaram
Perdi um jeito de sorrir que eu tinha...
Depois, de cada vez que me mataram.
Foram levando qualquer coisa minha...
E hoje, dos meus cadáveres, eu sou
O mais desnudo, o que não tem mais nada...
Arde um toco de vela, amarelada...
Como o único bem que me ficou!
Vinde, corvos, chacais, ladrões da estrada!
Ah! desta mão, avaramente adunca.
Ninguém há de arrancar-me a luz sagrada!
Aves da Noite! Asas do Horror! Voejai!
Que a luz, trêmula e triste como um ai.
A luz do morto não se apaga nunca!
Mário Quintana
sábado, dezembro 7
A DREAM
During my teenage years, I remember the house as being very active, with my mother and father working almost all day long, one or two maids (it was common at the time) rushing about in the small apartment, plus my sister and grandfather. The only time when there was some calm and everybody got together was at the meals, when we all related our exploits at work or school. Still, those were noisy meals. After my parents retired, and moved to Friburgo, life was quieter. I was at the States, then, but would spend my vacations in Friburgo, where my parents resided. The tranquil routine included a daily game of scrabble. My parents would sit for a long time, in benign antagonism. My mom always won the game. Each and every time. But my father never complained, quite the contrary, I think he was amused by the fact that he, the specialist in words, was always beaten by an architect. It also confirmed his strong conviction that my mother was a genius (he was right, of course!).
Last night I had a dream. I was back at Friburgo. my father was still alive. My parents were playing scrabble, as always. Nothing more than that. Just sitting there, playing scrabble. When I woke up, for a few seconds I expected to go to the living room, I expected to see them there, lovingly staring at each other across the scrabble board. Alas, it was just a dream. I haven't seen a scrabble board in years.
segunda-feira, dezembro 2
A VERY SHORT SONG
Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.
Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.
Dorothy Parker
RETRATO
Eu não tinha este rosto de hoje,
assim calmo, assim triste, assim magro,
nem estes olhos tão vazios,
nem o lábio amargo.
Eu não tinha estas mãos sem força,
tão paradas e frias e mortas;
eu não tinha este coração
que nem se mostra.
Eu não dei por esta mudança,
tão simples, tão certa, tão fácil:
— Em que espelho ficou perdida
a minha face?
Cecília Meireles
