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Gosto de ler na cama...
Para ser grande, sê inteiro:
Nada teu exagera ou exclui.
Sê todo em cada coisa. Põe quanto és
No mínimo que fazes.
Assim em cada lago a lua toda
Brilha, porque alta vive.
THE SADNESS OF THE MOON
by: Charles Baudelaire
The Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.
Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.
And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,
Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.
"Song to the Siren"
On the floating, shapeless oceans
I did all my best to smile
til your singing eyes and fingers
drew me loving into your eyes.
And you sang "Sail to me, sail to me;
Let me enfold you."
Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you.
Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you here when I was full sail?
Now my foolish boat is leaning, broken love lost on your rocks.
For you sang, "Touch me not, touch me not, come back tomorrow."
Oh my heart, oh my heart shies from the sorrow.
I'm as puzzled as a newborn child.
I'm as riddled as the tide.
Should I stand amid the breakers?
Or shall I lie with death my bride?
Hear me sing: "Swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you."
"Here I am. Here I am, waiting to hold you."
Desse teu corpo (este é meu)
Não é real, logo não é presídio...
Ou poderá sê-lo; porém as suas grades
não são feitas do mesmo metal... real.
Confiro aos sentidos hábeis mapas para tudo que é ilusório.
Eles assim o pediram e no entanto, e ainda assim, destilam sofrimento no espírito.
Com o mesmo talento que é o meu, enquanto navegante nesta solidão marítima.
Desse corpo lembro a forma como me morri.
E morri-lhe no seio leve. E levei ao menos isso, embora disso pouco se possa dizer.
Poder para quê? Dizer o quê? Que morri em silêncio, de frágil que estava;
frágil desse corpo do qual morri?
Era o corpo, esse corpo, um rochedo lânguido gemendo, clamando pelo mar em onda vaga.
E é desse corpo que lembro o nevoeiro inicial, lentamente descobrindo esse presídio antigo ao qual de livre vontade me fui entregar...
Desse corpo de onde sorvi tanto amor e tão apenas por o desejar.
Mas não o sabia eu? O que é belo e que desse modo o é, rápido o amor faz crescer; e tão rápido o faz que tão simples é pela raiz esse mesmo amor morrer.
Antes, por dor atroz ou ânsia amarga... nem por isso me morri.
É porêm agora que pereço fulminado.
E o que mais se morre em mim de ti...
Morre pelas vias do sonho desse teu corpo que eu nunca vivi.
Not real, therefore there's no real jail.
Or it could even be, this strange cage true.
But the bars... they're not built of the same metal...
The real.
Oh my senses, what a perfect map of ilusion I have provided you.
I've fulfilled your needs but that seems fast forgotten.
Still sorrow distillated from the soul.
Still the same mastership that is equivalent to mine while sailing this sea solitude.
About that body I recall the way I died on me.
And I died on me from her on her mild breasts.
And that's all I've taken and there's no will on me to speak much more.
Where would I find such will and whose words would be mine to speak?
The words of my silent death?
Was I that fragile?
Weaked down by this body from wich I've died?
It was the body, that body.
The softest rock whispering, claiming to the sea usind the forgotten words spoken by waves and waves only.
And still... they are mine to keep. The remembrances of a fog through dawn, slowly uncovering that old and dusty cage where I chained myself to.
Chained to this body's flesh where I had been feeding on so much love - and just because I could.
How was I to know?
I should.
Such beauty in such proportion, it fastens up this love to grow, so fast as simple to cut, oh those fragile roots of love.
In older days, neither by such an excruciating pain nor by wretched sorrow... you all saw, I never died on me.
Although I'm dying now. On me.
And the part in me which is dying deeply from you... well it's dying by the ways of the dreaming where I keep preciously, a body of you which is not mine to see.
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English
Jinhos**