Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Rui Cóias

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love,
to gash his landscape –
ashes from a fallen, fluid past.
At the end of our shared lives I might
say “I trembled
for years without hugging you.” Now it’s too late.
Now it’s too late in this besieged country.
Despair remained on the plains,
and the lilac pain of broken men
in the patience of night.
Only after the terror do the dogs faithfully bark
at the gates of morning, only
after the cutting edge of shared lives.
“I spent life seeking shelter in your mouth,” and
already I confuse your face
with some other.

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love

Não é difícil um homem apaixonar-se.
Ferir a sua paisagem,
cinzas de um passado caído, fluente.
Ao fim de vidas partilhadas pode ser que
diga “estremeci
durante anos sem te abraçar.” Agora é tarde.
Agora é tarde sobre a terra cercada.
Por planícies ficou o desespero,
a dor lilás dos homens soçobrados
na paciência nocturna.
Só depois do terror os cães ladram fielmente
aos portais da manhã, só
após o gume das vidas partilhadas.
“Passei a vida a fugir para a tua boca,” e
confundo já o teu rosto
com um qualquer.
Close

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love,
to gash his landscape –
ashes from a fallen, fluid past.
At the end of our shared lives I might
say “I trembled
for years without hugging you.” Now it’s too late.
Now it’s too late in this besieged country.
Despair remained on the plains,
and the lilac pain of broken men
in the patience of night.
Only after the terror do the dogs faithfully bark
at the gates of morning, only
after the cutting edge of shared lives.
“I spent life seeking shelter in your mouth,” and
already I confuse your face
with some other.

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love

It’s not hard for a man to fall in love,
to gash his landscape –
ashes from a fallen, fluid past.
At the end of our shared lives I might
say “I trembled
for years without hugging you.” Now it’s too late.
Now it’s too late in this besieged country.
Despair remained on the plains,
and the lilac pain of broken men
in the patience of night.
Only after the terror do the dogs faithfully bark
at the gates of morning, only
after the cutting edge of shared lives.
“I spent life seeking shelter in your mouth,” and
already I confuse your face
with some other.
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