fjords of chance

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Um peregrino passa pela cidade à noite
Malcolm Lowry

Um peregrino passa pela cidade à noite,
Um homem ignorante, um insignificante.
Ele já era um peregrino quando o mundo começou
A ler estranhos caçadores no infinito.
As escarpas estão à esquerda, enquanto à direita
O mar é como aquele mar cujo rumor percorreu
Um dia na sua infância a planície tempestuosa.
Então o mar era esperança, e o rumor era claridade.
As escarpas são altas, o mar demasiado profundo,
A cidade é apenas uma mentira, crispada de mentiras,
- Se eu tivesse a coragem de não dormir,
Não poderia seguir quando me pudesse levantar?
Ensina-me a navegar pelos fiordes do acaso
Perdido na minha abissal ignorância.

Boa tradução de José Agostinho Baptista, mas prefiro o original mesmo assim.

A Pilgrim Passes Throught the Town by Night

A prilgrim passes through the town by night
An ignorant, an insignificant man.
He was a pilgrim when the world began
To read strange huntsmen in the infinite.
The cliffs are on the left, while to the right
The sea is like the sea whose rumour ran
Once in his childhood throught the thundery plain.
The sea was hope then, and the rumour bright.
The cliffs are high, and the sea is far too deep,
The town is just a lie, twitching with lies,
- Would that I had the courage not to sleep,
I may not follow, when may I arise?
Teach me to navigate the fjords of chance
Winding through my abyssal ignorance.


Iron Thoughts Sail Out at Evening
Malcolm Lowry

Iron thoughts sail out at the evening on iron ships;
They move hushed as far lights while twelve footers
Dive at anchor as the ferry sputters
And spins like a round top, in the tide rips,
Its rooster voice half muted by choked pipes
Plumed with steam. The ship passes. The cutters
Fall away. Bells strike. The ferry utters
A last white phrase; and human lips,
A last black one, heavy with welcome
To loss. Thoughts leave the pitiless city,
Yet ships themselves are iron and have no pity;
While men have hearts and sides that strain and rust.
Iron thoughts sail from the iron cities in the dust,
Yet soft as doves the thoughts that fly back home.

Saudade em idioma estranho para nós, mas navegando os mesmos mares. Não sei que poeta português olhou o oceano longínquo com estranheza semelhante. Camilo Pessanha podia tê-lo feito, mas penso que não. (Aqui, no Gutenberg, toda a Clepsidra.)

"Life is a matter of stripping away inessentials from the central core of one's being which is, in fact, one's vocation itself. This makes life rather like fiction." (Malcolm Lowry, daqui, "Through a Glass Darkly", no Guardian).