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Group of the Visual Poets (2 photos/day, no invite needed :)
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this photo by Armando Taborda
Contigo lavo as minhas mãos. A floresta e as árvores dentro dela que se esganem. Nas tuas mãos lavarei as minhas; lavo sempre contigo os lugares vazios que foram ocupados por sombras. Onde cedo? A que árvores deitarei fogo mais cedo? Que aves magras guardo nos fundos do meu sangue?
Sei que sou o animal velho: aprendi a castrar catástrofes; criei e desfiz barcaças e canoas para rios que deslizaram céleres ou foram lentos de mais para tantos sonhos. Cada vez menos o meu coração se curva ao pé de ti; cada vez mais a noite trepa para dentro dos meus nervos, e mais noite nasce para fabricar o medo.
Medo é o ruído de bilhas quebradas pelas tardes a diluírem-se no espanto de um sol pequeno, amortalhado de morcegos.
Contigo lavo as minhas mãos --- até quando?
///
I wash my hands with you. This damn forest and trees inside. I will wash my hands in yours; I always wash with you empty places that were crowded by shadows. Where do I give up? Which trees will I put on fire too early? Which slim birds do I keep in my blood bottom?
I know I am the old animal: I learnt to castrate disasters; I created and destroyed barges and canoes for fast flown rivers or they were too slow for so many dreams. Less and less my heart submits to you; more and more the night climbs into my nerves, and more night is born to produce fear.
Fear is the noise of smashed pots by diluted afternoons in the astonishment of a little sun, shrouded by bats.
I wash my hands with you --- until when?
by Fernando GRADE, in "NÃO MINTAS ÀS PEDRAS", Edições Mic, 2012
(English translated by Armando TABORDA, 2013)
(photo taken from Internet; edited by Armando TABORDA)
www.ipernity.com/blog/armando.taborda/83834
(photo 1st edition, 2013; 2nd edition, 2016)
Translate into English
Sei que sou o animal velho: aprendi a castrar catástrofes; criei e desfiz barcaças e canoas para rios que deslizaram céleres ou foram lentos de mais para tantos sonhos. Cada vez menos o meu coração se curva ao pé de ti; cada vez mais a noite trepa para dentro dos meus nervos, e mais noite nasce para fabricar o medo.
Medo é o ruído de bilhas quebradas pelas tardes a diluírem-se no espanto de um sol pequeno, amortalhado de morcegos.
Contigo lavo as minhas mãos --- até quando?
///
I wash my hands with you. This damn forest and trees inside. I will wash my hands in yours; I always wash with you empty places that were crowded by shadows. Where do I give up? Which trees will I put on fire too early? Which slim birds do I keep in my blood bottom?
I know I am the old animal: I learnt to castrate disasters; I created and destroyed barges and canoes for fast flown rivers or they were too slow for so many dreams. Less and less my heart submits to you; more and more the night climbs into my nerves, and more night is born to produce fear.
Fear is the noise of smashed pots by diluted afternoons in the astonishment of a little sun, shrouded by bats.
I wash my hands with you --- until when?
by Fernando GRADE, in "NÃO MINTAS ÀS PEDRAS", Edições Mic, 2012
(English translated by Armando TABORDA, 2013)
(photo taken from Internet; edited by Armando TABORDA)
www.ipernity.com/blog/armando.taborda/83834
(photo 1st edition, 2013; 2nd edition, 2016)
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