Poem
António Franco Alexandre
Syrinx, a Pastoral Fiction (XVI)
You can pick me up, put me on the scale
of yes and no, and measure my virtue in inches;
my heart is still stored in a cool,
dry place, far away from words.
And I like being alone, in the smallest cell
of a sterile prison on the slopes,
singing all night long against my window
that looks out on to other, similarly barred windows.
You can even recite (but you don’t recite)
those funny sentences in which you fly
over distant hills that tremble in awe
at such a solemn, utterly new dawn,
and you can bring me cool water; I’ll still roll
myself into a tight ball and not budge
even when the inexplicable monster
rips my bedsheet with its claws.
Syrinx, Ficção Pastoral (XVI)
Syrinx, Ficção Pastoral (XVI)
Podes pegar em mim, pesar-me na balança
do sim e não, medir-me às polegadas a bondade;
ainda eu guardo o coração em sítio seco
e fresco, e longe de palavras.
E agrada-me estar só, na mais pequena cela
de uma prisão estéril entre os montes,
toda a noite a cantar contra a janela
donde se avistam outras grades iguais.
Podes até dizer (mas não as dizes)
as engraçadas frases em que voas
por distantes colinas, espantadas
de tão solene e nova madrugada;
e trazer-me água fresca, que me enrolo
em mim como um novelo e nem sequer
me movo quando o monstro inexplicável
com as suas garras rasga o meu lençol.
© 1999, António Franco Alexandre
From: Quatro caprichos
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
From: Quatro caprichos
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of António Franco Alexandre
Close
Syrinx, a Pastoral Fiction (XVI)
You can pick me up, put me on the scale
of yes and no, and measure my virtue in inches;
my heart is still stored in a cool,
dry place, far away from words.
And I like being alone, in the smallest cell
of a sterile prison on the slopes,
singing all night long against my window
that looks out on to other, similarly barred windows.
You can even recite (but you don’t recite)
those funny sentences in which you fly
over distant hills that tremble in awe
at such a solemn, utterly new dawn,
and you can bring me cool water; I’ll still roll
myself into a tight ball and not budge
even when the inexplicable monster
rips my bedsheet with its claws.
From: Quatro caprichos
Syrinx, a Pastoral Fiction (XVI)
You can pick me up, put me on the scale
of yes and no, and measure my virtue in inches;
my heart is still stored in a cool,
dry place, far away from words.
And I like being alone, in the smallest cell
of a sterile prison on the slopes,
singing all night long against my window
that looks out on to other, similarly barred windows.
You can even recite (but you don’t recite)
those funny sentences in which you fly
over distant hills that tremble in awe
at such a solemn, utterly new dawn,
and you can bring me cool water; I’ll still roll
myself into a tight ball and not budge
even when the inexplicable monster
rips my bedsheet with its claws.
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