Os Pássaros e O Poeta 17.09.2018

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The Birds

Spring came far too early this year:
May flowers blo­o­ming in Fe­bruary.
Should I be sad for the month,
or glad for the sky?
The birds don’t know which way to sing
and, my friend,
neither do I.

Two days ago, a girl I truly thought I loved
sud­denly didn’t seem to matter at all.
Should I sing sad fa­rewell to things
I’m re­ally glad I’ve left behind?
The birds don’t know which way to sing
and, my friend,
neither do I.

In another day, heavy snow will lie upon the ground
and buds pre­ma­tu­rely blo­omed shall fail;
and every cre­a­ture li­ving now,
then will su­rely die…
The birds don’t know which way to sing
and, my friend,
neither do I.
The birds don’t know if it’s time yet to fly;
they don’t know which way to go
and, my friend,
neither do I.

I Once Wrote Some Poems

I once wrote some poems of still­ness and si­lence,
stan­ding by ri­vers of re­flected light;
my thoughts were on being loved and yet un­loved, too -
I sur­ren­dered to the warmth of the night.
And now I feel like dying,
and if the water were still here, it would
hold me close.

I once wrote a poem while wal­king on gra­ves­tones,
as cob­bles, rain and tears lashed down my face;
I then felt my whole world was fa­ding
as me­mo­ries jos­tled and fell into place.
And now I feel like dying,
and the pain of old fires still burns.

I never wrote poems when I bit my knuc­kles
and Death started slip­ping into my mouth…
but that was re­ally a long time ago,
and I’m not wri­ting poems now.
And though I don’t feel quite like dying,
there is so­mething deep in­side me
softly crying.

And though I don’t feel quite like dying
there is so­mething deep in­side me softly.…

– Peter Ham­mill, Fool’s Mate
Para ler:   We shall remain invisible, for we travel light