quinta-feira, 13 de março de 2008


(Traduzido por MAIDA OLIVEIRA)

And i who was everything or nothing at noon
who sang the rain to the cold winter,
who dragged your name to the chaos feet,
who walked alone and naked,
beneath the sun of my street.

And i who loved everyone while I gazed upon life,
who hated the south wind of Saturday afternoons,
who grieved over death and celebrated life,
who changed so many dreams for precious books,
who hanged around for nothing,
beneath the moon of my useless time.

I, that cursed offenses on a Friday the thirteenth,
who loathed the lack of luck in the world,
and envied blond girls,
i sleep today at eternal rumba’s sound,
i wear red at six in the morning,
and black,
beneath the sun of my fate.

I, who never grieved over my nonsense,
who never granted back from my strict conceptions,
who from absolute certainties woke up in green valleys,
and listened to the solemn “ouch” from the virgin whores,
shedding blood when I was a child,
today I walk slowly,
beneath the moon of red stories.

And today everything here is memory and forgetfulness,
my house is too small
my friends no longer say the letters of my name,
And now i make the street below a broadway
and I still walk at no hurry,
beneath the sun and the moon of my shabby way.