sexta-feira, 18 de fevereiro de 2011


Like the cry of a seagull in the still air
above the empty beach where dark algae are drying,
The bluish bade cuts into her skin.

My fingers bare the nakedness of the orange lamp
so that with a scent of Crete it may light my room,
the way fresh water sprinkles a dry plant.

Milan Djordjevic, Oranges and Snow: Selected Poems, Charles Simic (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010

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