O haver (traducere în Engleză)
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Remains, above all else, that capacity for affection
That perfect intimacy with silence
Rests that intimate voice asking for forgiveness for everything
- Forgive! They can't be blamed for being born...
Remains that old respect for the night, that speaking softly
That hand that feels before having, that fear
Of getting hurt touching, that strong hand of a man
Full of meekness towards everything that exists.
Remains that immobility, that economy of gestures
That ever-growing inertia before the Infinite
That childish stutter of someone who wants to express the inexpressable
That irreducible denial at unlived poetry.
Remains that communion with the sounds, that sentiment
Of the matter at rest, that anguish of the simultaneity
Of time, that slow, poetic decomposition
In search of just one life, just one death, just one Vinicius.
Remains that heart burnt like a candle
In a cathedral in ruins, that sadness
Before the quotidian; or that sudden happiness
At hearing steps in the night that go missing without a story...
Remains that will to cry before beauty
That cholera in the face of the injustice and the misunderstanding
That immense pity for oneself, that immense
Pity for oneself and one's useless force.
Remains that sentiment of infancy suddenly unraveled
Of small absurdities, that capacity
To laugh at nothing, that ridiculous desire to be useful
And that courage to compromise oneself without necessity.
Remains that distraction, that disposition, that vagueness
Of someone who knows that everything has already been how it's going to be in the come-to-be
And at the same time that will to serve, that
Contemporaneity with the tomorrow of those who didn't have yesterday nor today.
Remains that incoercible ability to dream
To transfigure reality, within that incapacity
To accept it as it is, and that vision
Broad from the events, and that impressive
And unnecessary prescience, and that prior memory
Of nonexistent worlds, and that static heroism
And that small undecipherable light
To which poets sometimes give the name hope
Remains that desire to feel the like everyone
To reflect on looks without curiosity and without memory
Remains that intrinsic poverty, that pride
Of not wanting to be a prince if not of one's own kingdom
Remains that quotidian dialogue with death, that curiosity
For the moment to come, when, in a hurry
She will half-open a door like an old lover
But will retreat in veils upon seeing me beside the beloved.
Remains that constant struggle to walk inside the labyrinth
That eternal getting up after every fall
That search for equilibrium at the razor's edge
That terrible courage before the great fear, and that childish fear
Of having small courages.
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