quinta-feira, março 11

Your eyes are a strange place

It’s time like these,
when the entire moon perspires on car windows
and the sun reappears over-filling the ashtray,
that I remember I am made of the same flesh as all men
and that any slip-up can be fatal,
capable of, in an enchantment,
stealing portions of integrity.
For if when we leave for a place that’s far from everything
flying for any distant world,
and open our wings certain of ourselves,
laughing at the loneliness that ceased to exist,
comes destiny (or something else we’ve ceased to believe)
and undoes the volatile
forcing us to recall, if but for an instant,
that we are flesh
and blood
and arteries that flare when they pump
this strange substance that burns with a look,
and makes the heart trigger
in a second larger than eternity.

Obrigada, Hugo, pela tradução e por todo o carinho sempre demonstrado.