sexta-feira, 20 de novembro de 2009

For C.E.

I don't answer as to why I waste time,
that I eat and sleep and read and listen to music,
that I am, am not, am not that, but that
I live.

And I go around in these socks and muddy shoes
through the rotted grass and the vineyards,
so that I live, give everything up, even the meekest
hope that it could be otherwhise, that a plane
will not fly, that a face will appear in front of me
not again, but finally, that's what I hope for.

And so I don't move, I drink my tea and sleep
badly. But I hope, strangled by banalities,
I hope for a life in which red blossoms.
That's not modesty, but extinguishment,
an agreement with joy that enters the face out of boredom,
the accomplice of banality and passing time, and
the wild...

Ingeborg Bachmann, Darkness Spoken: The Collected Poems, Peter Filkins (trad.), Charles Simic (intr.), Zephyr Press, 2006

Sem comentários:

Enviar um comentário