Carlos Drummond de Andrade - Passagem do Ano dalszöveg fordítás angol nyelvre

Passage of the Year

The last day of the year
isn't the last day of time.
Others day shall come
and new thighs and bellies shall communicate to you the heat of life.
You shall kiss mouths, you shall rip up papers,
you shall make voyages and so many celebrations
of birthday, graduation, promotion, glory, sweet death with symphony
and choir,
that the time shall remain replete and you shall not hear the clamor,
the irreparable howls
of the wolf, in solitude.
 
The last day of time
isn't the last day of everything.
There always remains some fringe of life
where two men sit.
A man and his opposite,
a woman and her foot,
a body and its memory,
an eye and its glimmer,
a voice and its echo,
and who knows if even God . . .
 
Receive with simplicity this present of chance.
You deserved to live one more year.
You hoped to live forever and to deplete the dreg of the centuries.
Your father died, your grandfather too.
In you yourself many things have already expired, others peek out at death,
but you are alive. Still one more time you are alive,
and with a cup in hand
you await the dawn.
 
The appeal of inebriating oneself.
The appeal of the dance and of the shout,
the appeal of the colorful ball,
the appeal of kant and of poetry,
all of them . . . and none of them resolves things.
 
The morning of a new year surges up.
The things are clean, orderly.
The body of gestures replenishes itself in foam.
All the senses function in alertness.
The mouth is eating up life.
The mouth is stuffed with life.
The life spills from the mouth,
besmirches the hands, the pavement.
Life is fat, smelly, mortal, sub-reptilian.
 


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