A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di queston fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo
[Dante Alighieri, Inferno, XXVII, 61-66]
Bamos antoce alhá, tu i you,
Quando l çponer se stiraça pul cielo
Aparecido a un malo ambelesado a éter anriba la mesa.
Bamos alhá, por algues rues quaije sien un germo,
Rugidas scapadas
De nuites sien acunhar uolho an houteles baratos dua nuite
I restourantes cun serrin i conchas d’ostras:
Rues que s’alhárgan cumo anfadado argumiento
De que la scundida antençon
Ye lhebar-te para ua einebitable pregunta…
Á, nun preguntes, «Qual ye?»
Bamos alhá a la nuossa besita.
Ne l salon las mulhieres bénen i ban
A falar de Miguel Ángelo.
L’amarielha nubrina que sgoda las cuostas nas bidraças,
L amarielho fumo que sfrega sou çufino nas bidraças,
Lhambiu sue lhéngua por andrento las squinas de la tarchica
Quedou-se pulas poçacas acocadas nas baletas,
Deixou caier nas cuostas l fulhin de ls chupones,
Slubiou pul terraço, dou un repentino brinco,
I al ber que era ua serena nuite de Outubre,
Anroscou-se alredror la casa i ambelesou-se.
I pula cierta ha de haber tiempo
Pa l amarielho fumo que slúbia rue alantre,
Sgodando sues cuostas nas bidraças;
Ha de haber tiempo, ha de haber tiempo
Para poner ua cara cun que ancarar ls rostros que mirares;
Ha de haber tiempo para matar i para criar,
I tiempo para todos ls trabalhos i ls dies de manos
Que úpen i déixan caier ua pregunta ne l tou prato;
Tiempo para ti i tiempo para mi,
I tiempo inda para un ciento de andecisones,
I para un ciento de bisones i rebisones,
Antes de comer la torreija i tomar chá.
Ne l salon las mulhieres bénen i ban
A falar de Miguel Ángelo.
Para sonhar, «Bou-me a astrebir?» i, «Bou-me a astrebir?»
Tiempo para bolber i abaixar las scaleiras,
Cun ua calba scampada al meio de l miu pelo -
[Han de dezir: «Yá stá bien ralo l pelo del!»]
Mie casaca, mie gola de la camisa a oupir tesa l queixo,
Mie gorbata fina i apagada, mas presa por un hounesto alfinete -
[Han de dezir: «Si son bien finos ls braços i las piernas del!»]
Astrebirei-me
A albrotar l ouniberso?
Nun solo minuto hai tiempo
Para decisones i rebisones que un minuto puode rebogar.
Pus yá las coinci bien a todas, coinci-las a todas: –
Coinci las nuiticas, las manhanas, las tardes,
Medi mie bida a colharicas de café;
Oubo las bozes que se apóucan nua agonie de outonho
Antre ua moda dun quarto mui loinge.
Assi, cumo ye que me habie de astrebir?
I até yá coinci bien ls uolhos, coinci-los a todos –
Ls uolhos que te míran nua frase feita,
I quando you sou dezido, sticado an alfinete,
Quando stou alfinetado i a retrocer-me pula parede,
Antoce cumo habie de you ampeçar
A cuçpir to las puntas de mius dies i mius caminos?
I cumo ye que me hahie de astrebir?
I yá coinci bien ls braços tamien, coinci-los a todos –
Braços anelhados i brancos i znudos
[Mas a ua lhinterna, abaixados cun un rúcio pelo de brugo]
Ye l perfume dun bestido
Que me pon tan pensatible?
Braços stendidos na mesa, ou nun xal ambuoltos.
I inda assi me iba a astrebir?
I por adonde habie d’ampeçar?
……….
Dezirie you, que muito andube a la nuitica por caleijas
I bi l fumo a oupir-se de ls cachimbos
De homes an mangas de camisa, a la jinela, eilhes solos?...
You habie de haber sido un par de rasgadas gárrias
A scapar-me puls fondos de calhados mares.
……….
I la tarde, la nuitica, drume-se cun tanto sereno!
Acarinada por finos dedos,
Ambelesada… cansada…. ou a fazer d’amalinada,
Stiraçada ne l sobrado, eiqui an pie de ti i de mi.
Tenerie you, apuis l chá, ls bolhos i ls gilados,
Fuorça para lhebar l sfergante a la sue crise?
Mas anque yá tenga chorado i ayunado, chorado i rezado,
Anque yá tenga bido mie cabeça [un cachico yá mais calba] serbida nua trabiessa,
Nun sou porfeta – mas esso nun amporta muito;
Dei-me de cuonta de l sfergante de mie dubidosa grandeza,
I bi l eiterno criado a agarrá-me la jiqueta i cua risa angulhida,
I, nua palabra, staba grimado.
I haberie balido la pena, apuis de todo,
Apuis las chícaras, la marmelada, l chá,
Antre borcelanas, antre algue prática de ti i de mi,
Haberie balido la pena,
Haber arrematado l causo cun ua risada,
Haber ancalcado l ouniberso nua bola
Atirar cun el a la squina dua suprema question,
Dezir: «Sou Lázaro, bengo de l meio de ls muortos,
Torno para bos cuntar todo, hei de bos cuntar todo» -
Se alguien, al poner la cabeça ne l trabesseiro,
Houbira dezido: «Esso nun ye nada l que querie dezir.
Nun ye nada desso, nien aparecido».
I haberie balido la pena, apuis de todo,
Haberie balido mesmo la pena,
Apuis ls çponeres, las rues i ls huortos anfarinados d’ourbalheira,
Apuis ls remanses, las chícaras de chá, apuis l arrastrar las saias pul sobrado –
I esso, i inda muito mais? –
Ye ampossible de dezir mesmo l que penso!
Mas se ua lhinterna mágica ponisse ls nérbios straçalhados na pantalha:
Haberie balido la pena
Se alguien, al poner l trabesseiro ou al poner l xal a la priessa
I al bolber a caras a la jinela, dezira:
«Nun ye nada desso, nien aparecido,
Esso nun ye nada l que querie dezir.»
……….
Nó! Nun sou l Príncepe Hamlet, nien quier dezir que l tubira que ser;
Sou un fidalgo de la corte, un de ls que quieren fazer
Aparecer algun porgresso, abrir ua cena ou dues,
Acunselhar l príncepe; pula cierta, un strumiento fácele,
Respeitoso, sastifeito de poder serbir para algo,
Político, cuidadoso, i menudico;
Cheno de grandes ditos, mas un cachico cazmurro;
A las bezes, ye berdade, quaije redículo –
Quaije, a las bezes, l Boubo.
Stou a quedar bielho… Stou a quedar bielho…
Hei de andar cula droba de las calças rebuolta.
Hei de bestir calças brancas de franela, i passear pula praia.
Oubi las serenas a cantar, duas pa las outras.
Nun cuido que eilhas béngan a cantar para mi.
Hei las bido a scatrapulhar nas óndias a caras al lhargo,
A peinar las brancas clinas de las óndias crespas
Quando l aire torna l’auga clara i scura.
Pulas oundiicas cun sue griinalda de oucas burmeilhas i castanhas
Até que bozes houmanas mos spérten, i mos afogarmos.
T.S. Eliot (1888–1965)
Traduçon de Fracisco Niebro
[an anglés:
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di queston fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against te sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes,
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
………..
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
…………..
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
…………….
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous —
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.]
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