terça-feira, 10 de fevereiro de 2009

CDA - The flower and the nausea

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

The flower and the nausea

Held to my class and some clothes,
I go in white through the grey street.
Melancholies, products, goods spy on me.
Must I follow up to the nausea?
Can I, without guns, to revolt ?

Dirty eyes in the clock of the tower:
No, the time did not arrive of complete justice.
The time is still of feces, bad poems, hallucinations
and wait.
The poor time, the poor poet
melted on the same impasse.

In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf.
Under the skin of the words there are ciphers and codes.
The sun consoles the patients and does not renew them.
The things. What so sad are the things considered
without emphasis.

To vomit this boredom on the city.
Forty years and no problem
resolved, even put.
No letter written nor received.
All the men return for their houses.
They are less free but they take newspapers
and they spell the world, knowing that they lose it.

Crimes of the land, can I to forgive them?
I took part in many, hid others.
I found them beautiful, they were published.
Gentle crimes, which they help to survive.
Daily ration of mistake, distributed at house.
The ferocious bakers of the evil.
The ferocious milkmen of the evil.

To put fire in everything, inclusive in me.
To a boy of 1918 they were calling anarchist.
However my hate is my best.
With it I escape
and I give to few ones a little hope.

A flower was born in the street!
Pass from far away, trams, bus, river of steel
of the traffic.
A flower still discolored
Delude the police, it breaks the asphalt.
Do complete silence, paralyse the business,
I guarantee that a flower was born.

Its color is not perceived.
Its petals do not open.
Its name is not in the books.
It's ugly. But it's really a flower.

I sit down in the ground of the capital of the country
at five hours of the afternoon
And slowly I pass the hand in this insecure form.
From the side of the mountains, massive clouds increase.
Small white points are moved in the sea, chickens
in panic.
It's ugly. But it's a flower. It pierced the asphalt,
the boredom,
the loathing and the hate.

Trad. Livre by Leonardo de Magalhaens

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