Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Rui Cóias

MEDITERRANEAN II

The voices are gone.
They flew from the terrace and left us alone.
Men are scared of pining on their own.
So they listen to prodigious stories about one another.
Thus they endure failed loves,
loves mirrored on their faces like a bunch of grapes.
Men are lost,
they stand desolate and caged
in fear of the night.
They won’t recline again on the white weariness of youth.
They clasp golden rosaries in their hands
under the porches
allowing the passing women to stare,
supercilious.
At the close of night,
they languish in the heat of the terraces,
listening in silence to Kavafis’ poems.
At the close of night,
women fall utterly in love with them
and offer their souls in exchange for shelter.

MEDITERRÂNEO I

MEDITERRÂNEO I

Não há lugares, nunca houve, nem mesmo antigos.
Há o que olhamos neles, a sua marca de pó de tijolo que os faz sumir.
Só assim conseguimos chegar. Só brandamente, para lembrarmos. 
Não para tocar as colunas liláses ou fazer a travessia no veleiro das tangerinas.
Só vagamente andamos. Não caminhamos, debaixo do sol.
Os pés dos nómadas não enegrecem com as areias e as águas de pequenos portos.
São os ulmeiros que nos protegem e não os seus terraços.
A marca de pó fere-nos numa gota desmaiada,
podemos entretê-la mesmo entre os dedos que não petrefica.
Nada mudou desde o primeiro queixume; foi
com os olhos que partimos na linha do Mediterrâneo
e são as oliveiras o seu diurno limite.
Close

MEDITERRANEAN II

The voices are gone.
They flew from the terrace and left us alone.
Men are scared of pining on their own.
So they listen to prodigious stories about one another.
Thus they endure failed loves,
loves mirrored on their faces like a bunch of grapes.
Men are lost,
they stand desolate and caged
in fear of the night.
They won’t recline again on the white weariness of youth.
They clasp golden rosaries in their hands
under the porches
allowing the passing women to stare,
supercilious.
At the close of night,
they languish in the heat of the terraces,
listening in silence to Kavafis’ poems.
At the close of night,
women fall utterly in love with them
and offer their souls in exchange for shelter.

MEDITERRANEAN II

The voices are gone.
They flew from the terrace and left us alone.
Men are scared of pining on their own.
So they listen to prodigious stories about one another.
Thus they endure failed loves,
loves mirrored on their faces like a bunch of grapes.
Men are lost,
they stand desolate and caged
in fear of the night.
They won’t recline again on the white weariness of youth.
They clasp golden rosaries in their hands
under the porches
allowing the passing women to stare,
supercilious.
At the close of night,
they languish in the heat of the terraces,
listening in silence to Kavafis’ poems.
At the close of night,
women fall utterly in love with them
and offer their souls in exchange for shelter.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère