TO LUCY BARBOSA
Carlos Barbarito
trans. Brian Cole
°***°
I know of a silence in the grass,
of a place of safety,
precious metal of dreams,
but it is not much I know
of grasses, of metals, of dreams.
I know of a wet shoulder,
tasting of the sea,
but it is not much I know
of shoulders, of salt.
I know something of the sea, but not too much.
The walls repeat a word,
one after the other, as far as the horizon.
But still I am an illiterate child,
I walk close to the walls
and I don't manage to read what they say or do
not say.
I know nothing of those who are sleeping now,
stretched out on the earth,
in some antipodean region.
I know nothing of the water that flows
in the depths of the earth,
of the first lightning to come
in the storm that is in preparation, far away.
I think, yes, I know my name.
But if a pure tongue
were to ask me it,
would I know it?
...
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