Mendes and the Bullfight in the Round
To yield silk for silk,
millimeter by millimeter,
the petal-like tissue
to the finest needles.
To weave, weave, weave,
weave the bull in pink,
without yielding the very terrain
of the matador.
In the smothness of the silk,
in the cutting edge of a glimpse,
to slide over the sword
the purity of fire.
To retain the fate of the bull,
to feel the vein on the fingertip,
to bring the leather close to the body
without a flip of fear.
With the thinness of the needle,
even if the blood chills,
retain the dark rose
on the petal-like skin.
In the bullfight in the round,
to spill blood and salt,
weaving a rose
of fatal red color.
Millimeter by millimeter,
to yield, yield, yieid,
to yield until the very minute
when feeling that death has come.
Es Tarde para la Mañana
A Simone
Pobre pollito indefenso,
apoyado en la lata de basura,
en la descontracción de una chaqueta
de lujo, viniendo de una secreta
sibelina, más fina
que la piel humana.
En lo alto, las nubes
acaban de teñirse
en el amarillo de tu suavidad.
La tarde atardeció en la mañana.
Tus ojitos, todavia abiertos,
querían mis manos
en el dorso de tu plumón.
Querían que yo todavia
fuese niño, niño
que ofreciese mi inocencia
sólo para el niño
que piaba en ti.
Gentil era tu mansedumbre,
inclinada sobre una rosa rota,
pues descansabas tu eternidad
sobre un bouquet despreciado
por haberse marchitado.
Pero debajo de ti
cada pétalo todavía sangraba,
dejando una mancha de vino
en el descanso de tu vientre.
Fué cuando yo pasé,
ya estabas muerto cuando yo pasé
enamorado por el poniente,
olvidado de la mañana
que subía de tus ojitos.
Opportunioty of the Rose
I
The Song of João Moura
The bullfighter shouted in the center of the arena
and the horse danced in the depth of fear.
II
Picasso wanted to paint an arena,
full-sized, accurate,
with miuras with needle-sharp horns, carved
under the sleek black mountains.
On the canvas of the painter bad omens show:
in Guernica, did he paint the victory of the bull?
Consider that the arenas are human roses
ready to burst with the rage of the blood.
If Picassos dream were not so absurd,
Manolete, for sure, in his gala outfit
remembering Linares, would give himself to the bull:
would he repeat, once again, the faena of the rose?
III
Why do we trust the bull with the evidence of the wait,
on this chancy dove, innocent yet a beast?
IV
At the very moment when the body is dressed in gala
the heat of the shroud increases its nakednes.
V
Tragedy of "YIYO"
The mortal spike ripping the flesh
of the bullfighter makes sprout a brutal beauty.
VI
Will I see the day when the bull will find its luck
in the prime of the fake womb of the reckless veronica?
Oitava Cantiga de Amigo
Junto às vagas do mar de Vigo,
venho ao relembrar de um amigo.
Aves põem plumas no horizonte
e as plumas, águas de uma fonte,
em Vigo, nas algas do mar,
do amigo, trazem-me o tardar.
Do além-mar vem, leve por plumas,
a dor que não quero chorar.
Porém as gaivotas põem brumas,
no profundo de meu penar,
onde, às margens do mar de Vigo,
venho ao relembrar de um amigo.
Noche
Un viento ondula
hojas inmensas
en los más profundo
de mi silencio.
Una onda inunda
mi consciente
que se ahonda
en el agua intensa.
Memorias brillan
de una estrella
jamás descrita.
Brama, aquí dentro,
el eterno grito
de la tierra en tinieblas.
Oportunidade da Rosa
I
O Canto de João Moura
O toureiro gritava do centro da arena
e o cavalo dançava do fundo do medo.
II
Picasso desejava pintar uma praça
de touros ao tamanho natural, exato,
com Miúras de picos de agulhas, talhadas
por sobre o luzidio de negras montanhas.
Nos painéis do pintor se avizinham agouros:
em Guernica pintou Ele o triunfo do touro?
Repara que as arenas são rosas humanas
prontas para romper-se na fúria do sangue.
Se o sonho de Picasso não fosse um absurdo,
Manolete, decerto, em seus trajes de luzes,
recordando Linares, se daria ao touro:
faria Ele, outra vez, a faena da rosa?
III
Por que pomos no touro a evidência da espera,
nesse pombo da sorte, inocente em ser fera?
IV
No momento em que o corpo se veste de luzes
o calor de mortalhas aumenta a nudez.
V
Tragédia de "YIYO"
Na mortal lacerada do cravo na carne
do toureiro brotava a beleza brutal.
VI
Verei o dia em que o touro terá sua sorte,
na flor do ventre falso de ousada verônica?
Lección de Luz
I
De súbito el silencio se tornó luz,
en tejido de música, en súbdito azul.
II
Haya en las sílabas la luz,
la armonía, el sonido del universo,
para que oigamos el silencio,
este nuestro humano silencio,
para que podamos, poeta,
pisar la página de sangre.
III
Casi visible rosa tocable del pomo,
una ojiva, en el asombro, en los hombros de la paloma.
IV
Nosotros abandonamos las cosas
porque crecemos para el sol.
Entre lo que dejamos atrás,
sin piedad, sin remordimiento,
existe la inocência, el niño;
existe el pajarito triste,
que canta de la desnudez de la luz
la elegía de la conciencia.
V
Qué música, quê música se apaga a lo lejos,
regida por las alas del ave en el horizonte?
VI
Escribe solamente lo que es breve,
en la breve luz de nuestra vida,
que nunca aborrece a los niños
y no moja márgenes en el mirar.
Así queremos tus cuadernos,
para sumergirnos en las algas,
en aquellas raíces más hondas
que encienden el verde del mar.
VII
Basta de lucidez, de claridad, de busto,
de pubertad lenta, en el seno del susto.
VIII
La pupila de una gacela
rasga las rocas del horizonte.
Violeta, la ventana de la noche,
para el lado este del azul,
donde en el añil se esconde el vientre.
IX
En el otoño: el brujuleo de pulpas enjutas;
en el vestigio de la sangre, la lujuria de la fruta.
X
En el silencio que se abre entre doblar de campanas,
hay un pajarito muerto, en lugar de un niño.
Night
A breeze ripples
huge leaves
in the depth
of my silence.
A wave floods
my conscience
that submerges
in the tense waters.
Memories shine
from a star
at no time traced.
Deep inside
roars the eternal scream
of earth covered by darkness.
Eight Song of Friendship
Close to the waves of the sea of Vigo
I come to remember a friend.
Birds shed feathers at the horizon
and the feathers, water from a spring
in Vigo, on the seaweeds
of the friend announce his delay.
From beyond comes, light as feathers,
the pain I do not want to lament.
But the svagulls fill with mist
the depth of my sorrow,
when, on the shores of the sea of Vigo
I come to remember a friend.
Lesson of Light
I
Suddenly the silence turns into light,
as if strains of music, as if a subject in blue.
II
To find light within phrases,
the harmony, the sound of the universe,
so that we can hear the silence,
our own human silence,
so that we can, poet,
step on a page of blood.
III
Almost visible touchable pink of the poem,
an ogive, bewitched, on the shoulders of a dove.
IV
We forsake many things
because we grow towards the sun.
Amongst what we leave behind,
without piety, without remorse,
exists the innocence, the child;
like a sad little bird,
which sings in the bare light
the elegy of conscience.
V
What music, what music fades away in the distance,
ruled by the wings of the bird on the horizon?
VI
Write only what is brief,
in the short light of our life,
that never disturbs the children
and does not wet the margins of one’s vision.
So we need your notebooks,
to dive among the seaweeds,
within the deepest roots
that will light the green of the sea.
VII
Comes from the lucidness, the shine, the breast,
the slow puberty, within the center of scare.
VIII
The pupil of a gazelle
tears the rocks in the horizon.
Violet, the reflexion of the light,
to the east side of the sky,
where the deepest blue hides within the womb.
IX
In Autumn: the flicks of dry pulps;
on the remains of the life blood, the richness of the fruit.
X
In the silence which opens among the bell knell,
there is a dead little bird, to replace the child.
