Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jorge de Sena

SMALL ROMAN HEAD FROM MILREU

This evanescent, acute head,
so sweet in her decapitated look,
reveals nothing of the portentous Empire:
no tongues meet in empty eyesockets,
no legions march in her mouth,
in the curved nose you will not find
people massacred and betrayed.
She contemplates life sweetly,
knowing how she must, if she can,
refuse thought with a little madness,
for a brief moment relinquishing
the firm tranquility of cool reason.
She is a dream of virtue: the slave
who owned her never, in those sad
moments of having a body, possessed her
beyond this reach. And her husband,
if indeed it was his seed in her, never
felt the weight of this long look
resting upon him. She lived and died
like a goddess among columns, men,
meadows and rivers, shadows and harvests,
theaters and winepresses. Yet
she was no goddess: the empire went on
ravenously swallowing all the gods
it had no face for, so humans,
to humanize the gods, lent
their own which now are lost.
This evanescent head survived:
neither goddess nor woman, only knowledge
that nothing can save us from ourselves.

CABECINHA ROMANA DE MILREU

CABECINHA ROMANA DE MILREU

Esta cabeça evanescente e aguda,
tão doce no seu ar decapitado,
do Império portentoso nada tem:
nos seus olhos vazios não se cruzam línguas,
na sua boca as legiões não marcham,
na curva do nariz não há os povos
que foram massacrados e traídos.
É uma doçura que contempla a vida,
sabendo como, se possível, deve
ao pensamento dar certa loucura,
perdendo um pouco, e por instantes só,
a firme frieza da razão tranquila.
É uma virtude sonhadora: o escravo
que a possuía às horas da tristeza
de haver um corpo, a penetrou jamais
além de onde atingia; e quanto ao esposo,
se acaso a fecundou, não pensou nunca
em desviar sobre el’ tão longo olhar.
Viveu, morreu, entre colunas, homens,
prados e rios, sombras e colheitas,
e teatros e vindimas, como deusa.
Apenas o não era: o vasto império
que os deuses todos tornou seus, não tinha
um rosto para os deuses. E os humanos,
para que os deuses fossem, emprestavam
o próprio rosto que perdiam. Esta
cabeça evanescente resistiu:
nem deusa nem mulher, apenas ciência
de que nada nos livra de nós mesmos.
Close

SMALL ROMAN HEAD FROM MILREU

This evanescent, acute head,
so sweet in her decapitated look,
reveals nothing of the portentous Empire:
no tongues meet in empty eyesockets,
no legions march in her mouth,
in the curved nose you will not find
people massacred and betrayed.
She contemplates life sweetly,
knowing how she must, if she can,
refuse thought with a little madness,
for a brief moment relinquishing
the firm tranquility of cool reason.
She is a dream of virtue: the slave
who owned her never, in those sad
moments of having a body, possessed her
beyond this reach. And her husband,
if indeed it was his seed in her, never
felt the weight of this long look
resting upon him. She lived and died
like a goddess among columns, men,
meadows and rivers, shadows and harvests,
theaters and winepresses. Yet
she was no goddess: the empire went on
ravenously swallowing all the gods
it had no face for, so humans,
to humanize the gods, lent
their own which now are lost.
This evanescent head survived:
neither goddess nor woman, only knowledge
that nothing can save us from ourselves.

SMALL ROMAN HEAD FROM MILREU

This evanescent, acute head,
so sweet in her decapitated look,
reveals nothing of the portentous Empire:
no tongues meet in empty eyesockets,
no legions march in her mouth,
in the curved nose you will not find
people massacred and betrayed.
She contemplates life sweetly,
knowing how she must, if she can,
refuse thought with a little madness,
for a brief moment relinquishing
the firm tranquility of cool reason.
She is a dream of virtue: the slave
who owned her never, in those sad
moments of having a body, possessed her
beyond this reach. And her husband,
if indeed it was his seed in her, never
felt the weight of this long look
resting upon him. She lived and died
like a goddess among columns, men,
meadows and rivers, shadows and harvests,
theaters and winepresses. Yet
she was no goddess: the empire went on
ravenously swallowing all the gods
it had no face for, so humans,
to humanize the gods, lent
their own which now are lost.
This evanescent head survived:
neither goddess nor woman, only knowledge
that nothing can save us from ourselves.
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