HENRY MOORE’S WOMEN IN THE GARDENS

The smell of rain has infected the gardens
Henry Moore’s women inhale the air.

And you, son, take aim at me, camouflaged
in the cavernous whiteness of those beings.
“Dead!, you’re dead!” you exult.

Among the magic projectiles adrift
– now chrysalises now arks in the flood –
they ask in their calm bodies for peace
with the earth, its furrows, its grass.

Are these our ships returning to the soil?

Mulheres de Henry Moore nos Jardins

Mulheres de Henry Moore nos Jardins

O cheiro da chuva inquinou os jardins
mulheres de Henry Moore sorvem os ares.

E tu alvejas-me, filho, camuflado
na recôncava brandura desses seres.
“Morta! estás morta!” rejubilas.

Entre os mágicos projécteis à deriva,
já crisálidas, já arcas no dilúvio,
pedem paz elas num sossegado corpo
com a terra, seus regos, suas relvas.

Naves nossas de regresso ao solo?