| Caro Almirante, reconhecendo o exagero de Aleixo ( considerando embora, que as carapuças servem bem numa ou duas cabecinhas que eu cá sei), passo agora a transcrever um Prémio Nobel da Literatura com direito a tradução de Vasco Graça Moura (imaginando que também isso lhe agrade), de seu nome Seamus Heaney.
"Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue. Out there in the Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home." |
sexta-feira, janeiro 28, 2005
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Casualty
I
He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another rum
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman's quick eye
And turned observant back.
Seamus Heaney, Da Terra à Luz, Poemas 1966–1987. Tradução, Prefácio e Notas de Rui de Carvalho Homem, Relógio de Água, Lisboa, 1997
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