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.
