domingo, 28 de agosto de 2011
quinta-feira, 18 de agosto de 2011
quarta-feira, 17 de agosto de 2011
What would the dead want from us
Watching from their cave?
Would they have us forever howling?
Would they have us rave
And disfigure ourselves, or be strangled
Like some ancient emperor's slave?
None of my dead friends were emperors
With such exorbitant tastes
And none of them were so vengeful
As to have their friends waste
Waste quite away in sorrow
Disfigured and defaced.
I think the dead would want us
To weep for what THEY have lost.
I think that our luck in continuing
Is what would affect them most.
But time would find them generous
And less self-engrossed.
And time would find them generous
As they used to be
And what else would they want from us
But an honoured place in our memory,
A favourite room, a hallowed chair,
Privilege and celebrity?
And so the dead might cease to grieve
And we might make amends
And there might be a pact between
Dead friends and living friends,
What our dead friends would want from us
Would be such living friends.
Nestes dias pesados, surgem (um pouco de todo o lado)
os mais diversos pensamentos.
Não é minha intenção inundar o submarino com eles.
Mas este em particular agradeço à Vera.
E, apesar de não saber se ainda cá vem,
é na Maria Vasconcelos que penso quando o partilho aqui.
Um abraço a todos
segunda-feira, 15 de agosto de 2011
terça-feira, 9 de agosto de 2011
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
Mary E. Frye