THE HOUSE
The vase in the house, the damp earth brought from the
garden,
I light up a cigarette and wait for the beginning... of a rose or blood
or day.
I occupy my eyes through the window,
On bare trees, poor, rooted into autumn.
Silence, from time to time,
lights up the house.
The body, being thought of, stirs.
I agitate my hands as if holding a piano.
The window teaches that the world slowly revolves.
Blueberries near the wall
Limit the space that voice
can reach
The vase feeds a small solitude.
I caress it for the fresh colour of clay. Yesterday I still shared the tenderness
with the orange trees and the water brought from the well to the house.
Mud came with the steps.
The most faithful birds poise on the windowsill,
as if one asking: so, is earth still earth?
The vase lingers in silence, doesn’t move away,
Keeps track with the house,
keeps track with the body.
I leave for the mushrooms in the back,
that take part in the shadow of the house, of rustling noises in the life
of bugs.
Open cones on the moss light up the fireplace.
The vase doesn’t move
away not even with the fire.
Night comes.
The window is shadow and cries.
Beyond the wall there is a river.
No one told me, I hear it.
When tomorrow rises, the sun will light up the hill,
Then I’ll see the man that lives there with the goats.
He’s always alone. Throwing stones afar, reaching a longing.
He used to have a wife, now
only cold and steps.
The vase in the house, the damp earth brought from the garden.
I light up a cigarette and wait for the beginning... of a rose or blood
or day.
I would like to have another body, watch it grow.
Yesterday I cried out to fill
the house.
Cars sing in the avenues at early hour
And the man that rises today rises for all days.
Tip toeing, cursing life.
The vase lingers on in silence, and doesn’t move away.
Devouring earth, devouring water.
The house feeds on life,
Death is of no importance to her.
I listen to the wood giving
way to fire.
I listen these verses to myself.
Burn myself from breathing the air
With eyes rested on summer apples.
Yes I see the hand, yes I see the vase, and yes I see the fire.
But yes is not enough.
Cities have closing gates,
Cars with which to escape
Windows through which to desire.
Cities have bridges where to get people.
But yes is not enough.
The vase lingers on in silence, and doesn’t move away.
Feeds a small solitude.
A man stoops over white leaves,
Descends by the vase or by the verse.
Outside, clouds run after
rivers.
What branch holds a body to a house,
What water moves in that will,
fire, air, ashes, eyes?
The chimney teaches, not memory
but smoke signals life.
The house feeds.
Death is of no importance
to her.
It used to be in this room, next to the kitchen
that cattle was slaughtered.
They ate until being eaten.
And nobody asked why it was one grew up.
The abandonment. The error. The silence of the geese.
The vase and me.
I taught my sensibility to suffer later on.
When tomorrow rises, the sun will light up the hill,
then, I will see the man who lives here, alone, like a cry.
And some frost over the quinces.
In A Voz Que Nos Trai, Cotovia, 1997
Translated by Inês Campilho Chaves