ESPANCA, Florbela
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Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija! É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja Rei do Reino de Aquém e de Além Dor!
E não saber sequer que se deseja! É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja, É ter garras e asas de condor!
Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e cetim… É condensar o mundo num só grito!
É seres alma e sangue e vida em mim E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!
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Than men. To bite like others kiss. It is to be a beggar and to give like you are king of the kingdom of brief and ever-lasting pain.
And not even know what you desire. It is to have here inside a star, a flame. It is to have the condor’s talons and wings.
The gold and satin mornings like an antique helmet; It is to condense the world into a single cry,
You are the soul, the blood, and the life in me And I tell it to everyone through my song.
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Tem asas como eu tenho! Porque Deus Me fez nascer Princesa entre plebeus Numa torre de orgulho e de desdém.
Porque trago no olhar os vastos céus E os oiros e clarões são todos meus! Porque eu sou Eu e porque Eu sou Alguém!
—O jardim dos meus versos todo em flor… A seara dos teus beijos, pão bendito…
—São os teus braços dentro dos meus braços, Via Láctea fechando o Infinito. |
Has wings like mine. Because God Begot me princess among the people In a tower of pride and disgust.
Because I bring in my look the vast skies And the gold and lightening are all mine. Because I am who I am and because I am somebody.
—The garden of my verses all in bloom, The wheat field of your kisses like blessed bread.
—They are your arms inside my arms,
the Milky Way closing the Infinite.
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translated by Kay Cosgrove
III
My body trembles seeking yours,
my hands are hot on your skin
smelling of amber, vanilla, and honey,
my crazed arms long to embrace you.
I search for your eyes everywhere,
thirsty for kisses, bitter,
overcome with hunger sharp and cruel,
because nothing satisfies it!
And I see you from afar. I feel your soul
near mine, a calm lake,
telling me that you don’t love me.
And my heart, disregarded,
drifts on the currents,
a black skiff on a sea of flames.
Trees of Alentejo
In the dead of night, curved at the foot of the mountain,
the plain is a brazier, and tortured,
the bloodied, rebellious trees
cry out for God to give them a fountain.
And late morning, when the sun embroiders
golden the Spanish broom burning by the road,
their tragic profiles are outlined against the horizon
like scruffy sphinxes.
Trees, hearts, souls that weep,
souls like mine that plead in vain
for relief from so much misery!
Trees . . . Don’t weep! Look here and see:
I too am crying out, dying of thirst,
begging God for my drop of water!