Miles off, a storm breaks. It ripples to our room.
You look up into the light so it catches one side
Of your face, your tight mouth, your startled eye.
You turn to me and when I call you come
Over and kneel beside me, wanting me to take
Your head between my hands as if it were
A delicate bowl that the storm might break.
You want me to get between you and the brute thunder.
Settling on your flesh my great hands stir,
Pulse on you and then, wondering how to do it, grip.
The storm rolls through me as your mouth opens.
You look up into the light so it catches one side
Of your face, your tight mouth, your startled eye.
You turn to me and when I call you come
Over and kneel beside me, wanting me to take
Your head between my hands as if it were
A delicate bowl that the storm might break.
You want me to get between you and the brute thunder.
Settling on your flesh my great hands stir,
Pulse on you and then, wondering how to do it, grip.
The storm rolls through me as your mouth opens.
Ian Hamilton, Cinquenta Poemas, Nuno Vidal (Trad.), Livros Cotovia, 1995.
Este livro ficou esquecido na minha mesa de trabalho, como hoje não é dia de trabalhar na biblioteca, torno a encontrá-lo onde o deixei, ou seja entre o Thomas Bernhard e o Le Grand Bailly (Dictionnaire de Grec-Français). Vou arrumá-lo na estante, mas antes disso torno a folheá-lo.
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