Petr Borkovec

The Light Dragged Off
Petr Borkovec

THE LIGHT DRAGGED off and rain began to pour.
Hell glinted through the pavements here and there.

Like Lada's pictures, with tender and kind hearts,
the devils set to laying out their hoards.

Above the lamps, three late birds homeward bound.
Above the listless, sad and drawn-out standpoint

of the evening city, of the windows of each bookshop,
of the pubs going at full tilt and all lit up,

of the fountain with a naked marble lad
consoling a small carp in a marble lota

(the nose his father's, the eyes his mother gave him...
how gaily coins glint at the water's bottom),

of the weakening rain and the devils with their secrets.
We stood there and lit two sweet cigarettes.

It's nothing, love. You're shaking like a feather.
Hold me. Let's go. We will sleep together.

. . .
a ler aqui.