Carlos Drummond de Andrade - Morte do Leiteiro dalszöveg fordítás angol nyelvre

Death of the Milkman

There is little milk in the country,
it is necessary to deliver it early.
There is a lot of thirst in the country,
it is necessary to deliver it early.
There is in the country a saying,
that a robber should be killed with a gunshot.
Therefore the young man who is the morning
milkman with his pail
goes out running and distributing
good milk to bad people.
His pail, his bottles
and his rubber shoes
go on saying to the men in sleep
that someone woke up extra early
and came from the farthest suburb
to bring the coldest
and whitest milk from the best cow
so that all would prevail
in the tough struggle of the city.
 
In his hand the white bottle
doesn't have time to say
the things that I attribute it
and the young naïf milkman,
living in the Rua Namur,
employed in the warehouse,
with 21 years of age,
who knows there what might be impulse
of human comprehension.
And now that he has haste, the body
goes leaving the edge of the houses
merely one merchandise.
 
And like how the door of depths
I also hid people
that aspire for a little bit of milk
available in our time,
let us advance through that alleyway,
let us speed through the corridor,
let us deposit the liter . . .
Without making a rustle, it is clear,
that the rustle doesn't resolve anything.
 
My milkman so subtle
and light of gait,
glides before he marches.
It is true that some sound
is always made: mistaken step,
flower vase in the road,
dog barking by principle,
or a quizzical cat.
And there is always someone who wakes up,
grumbles and returns to sleep.
 
But this man woke up in panic
(robbers infest the neighborhood),
He didn't want to know of anything else.
The revolver from the drawer leapt into his hand.
Robber? shoot him.
The morning shots
annihilate my milkman.
Whether he was fiancé, whether he was virgin,
whether he was joyful, whether he was good,
I don't know,
it's too late to know.
 
But the man lost the sleep
of everything, and flees to the road.
My God, I've killed an innocent man.
Bullet that kills thief
also serves to steal
the life of our brother.
Whosoever wishes may call the doctor,
the police doesn't put a hand
on this son of my father.
The property is saved.
The general night proceeds,
the morning costs to arrive,
but the staked
milkman, in the open,
lost the haste he had.
 
From the shattered bottle,
on the already serene brick
spills something thick
that is milk, blood . . . I don't know.
From between confused objects,
badly redeemed by the night,
two colors seek out one another,
softly they touch each other,
lovingly they enlace each other,
forming a third tone
which we call dawn.
 


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