Cecília Meireles: "Canção Póstuma"

Bom dia, folks. I've got another Brazilian poem in translation for you. Along with the João da Cruz e Sousa poem I posted the other day, I read this during the event this past Sunday at the BAF, "O Brasil Secreto". The event went pretty well; attendance was good, and people seemed to enjoy the work presented. I look forward to doing it again in a few months' time.

Today's offering to the gods and muses of literature is by Cecília Meireles, one of Brazil's most widely known poets. I've got another translation of one of her poems in the works, so look for that in the near future, along with renewed efforts to practice my classical Chinese (via translation, of course).

Até breve!

DAS

Canção Póstuma

Cecília Meireles

Fiz uma canção para dar-te;

porém tu já estavas morrendo.

A Morte é um poderoso vento.

E é um suspiro tão tímido, a Arte...

É um suspiro tímido e breve

como a da respiração diária.

Choro de pomba. E a Morte é uma águia

cujo grito ninguém descreve.

Vim cantar-te a canção do mundo,

mas estás de ouvidos fechados

para os meus lábios inexatos,

— atento a um canto mais profundo.

E estou como alguém que chegasse

ao centro do mar, comparando

aquele universo de pranto

com a lágrima da sua face.

E agora fecho grandes portas

sobre a canção que chegou tarde.

E sofro sem saber de que Arte

se ocupam as pessoas mortas.

Por isso é tão desesperada

e pequena, humana cantiga.

Talvez dure mais do que a vida.

Mas à Morte não diz mais nada.

Posthumous Song

Cecília Meireles

translated by D.A. Smith

I wrote a song to give to you;

however, you were already dying.

Death is a strong wind.

And Art is such a weak sigh...

It is a brief, timid sigh,

like that of everyday breathing.

The cry of a dove. And Death is an eagle

whose cry nobody can describe.

I came to sing you the song of the world,

but your ears were deaf

to my fumbling lips,

—tuned to a deeper song.

And I am like someone who has come

to the middle of the sea, comparing

that weeping world

to the tears on your face.

And now I close the massive doors

on the song that arrived late.

And I suffer not knowing which Art

dead people concern themselves with.

That is why you are so desperate

and small, human song.

Perhaps you will last longer than life.

But you have nothing to say to Death.