Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Manuel de Freitas

FADO MENOR

He got used to walking
under the plane trees, dissipating
hangovers and hazy memories.
The truth is they had little in common.

The first time they met they were
sitting on the same side
of a bar but on different ends.
She wore the most ardent
red he had ever seen,
under a brutal gray made
almost excusable by the January cold.

They didn’t sleep together right away.
But he had her to thank for a trail
of happy sperm in the bed
where he died alone. Stretched out next to
Berkeley, Wittgenstein and Spinoza,
the pages of a course he didn’t care for
and that at least didn’t dirty his nights.

Within a few weeks they were walking
hand in hand through the garden
or along the streets near the bar.
Until the day she stopped coming.

Heart on fire, ashes everywhere
— there’s no return from a red like that.

FADO MENOR

FADO MENOR

Habituou-se a caminhar
sob os plátanos, diluindo
ressacas e lembranças imperfeitas.
Pouco teriam em comum.

Foi num bar, o primeiro
encontro, em lados diferentes
mas não opostos do balcão.
Ela vestia o mais ardente
vermelho que já vira,
sob um cinzento agreste que
o frio de Janeiro quase desculpou.

Não dormiram logo juntos.
Mas ficou a dever-lhe um rasto
de esperma feliz, na cama
em que morria só. Ao seu lado,
Berkeley, Wittgenstein, Espinosa,
páginas de um curso que não queria
e que nem ao menos lhe sujava as noites.

Semanas depois, passeavam de mãos
dadas pelo jardim ou pelas ruas
mais próximas do bar.
Até ao dia em que deixou de vê-la.

Coração em brasa, cinza por todo o lado
– um vermelho assim não tem regresso.
Close

FADO MENOR

He got used to walking
under the plane trees, dissipating
hangovers and hazy memories.
The truth is they had little in common.

The first time they met they were
sitting on the same side
of a bar but on different ends.
She wore the most ardent
red he had ever seen,
under a brutal gray made
almost excusable by the January cold.

They didn’t sleep together right away.
But he had her to thank for a trail
of happy sperm in the bed
where he died alone. Stretched out next to
Berkeley, Wittgenstein and Spinoza,
the pages of a course he didn’t care for
and that at least didn’t dirty his nights.

Within a few weeks they were walking
hand in hand through the garden
or along the streets near the bar.
Until the day she stopped coming.

Heart on fire, ashes everywhere
— there’s no return from a red like that.

FADO MENOR

He got used to walking
under the plane trees, dissipating
hangovers and hazy memories.
The truth is they had little in common.

The first time they met they were
sitting on the same side
of a bar but on different ends.
She wore the most ardent
red he had ever seen,
under a brutal gray made
almost excusable by the January cold.

They didn’t sleep together right away.
But he had her to thank for a trail
of happy sperm in the bed
where he died alone. Stretched out next to
Berkeley, Wittgenstein and Spinoza,
the pages of a course he didn’t care for
and that at least didn’t dirty his nights.

Within a few weeks they were walking
hand in hand through the garden
or along the streets near the bar.
Until the day she stopped coming.

Heart on fire, ashes everywhere
— there’s no return from a red like that.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère