Charles Simic
Belgrado, Iugoslávia
O QUARTO BRANCO
Tradução: Carlos Machado
O óbvio é difícil de
provar. Muitos preferem
o oculto. Eu também preferia.
Eu escutava as árvores.
Elas guardavam um segredo
que estavam prestes
a me revelar —
e não o fizeram.
Veio o verão. Cada árvore
de minha rua tinha sua própria
Xerazade. Minhas noites
faziam parte de suas histórias
selvagens. Entrávamos
em casas escuras,
casas sempre mais escuras,
silenciosas e abandonadas.
Havia alguém de olhos fechados
nos pisos superiores.
O medo e o fascínio me
mantinham bem desperto.
A verdade é nua e crua,
disse a mulher
que sempre se vestiu de branco.
Ela não saiu muito de seu quarto.
O sol apontava uma ou duas
coisas que tinham sobrevivido
intactas na longa noite.
As coisas mais simples,
difíceis em sua obviedade.
Essas não faziam barulho.
Era um dia do tipo
que as pessoas chamam "perfeito".
Deuses disfarçados de
grampos de cabelo, espelho de mão,
um pente com um dente faltando?
Não! Não era isso.
Apenas as coisas como são,
mudas, imóveis, sem piscar,
naquela luz brilhante —
e as árvores esperando a noite.
THE WHITE ROOM
The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me —
And then didn't.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn't leave her room much.
The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,
Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as "perfect."
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn't it.
Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light —
And the trees waiting for the night.
The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me —
And then didn't.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn't leave her room much.
The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,
Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as "perfect."
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn't it.
Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light —
And the trees waiting for the night.
fuente: poesia.net (envio de su director Carlos Machado)
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