Friday, December 28, 2007

Poemas traduzidos (I)

Mister Lazarus

Dying/Is an art, like everything else.
Sylvia Plath

He sits on ancestral door
from where its eyes
eat a few dreams

can’t spring
into streets of world
its weak legs

its
tired eyes
read the Job's book.

(in Literary Kicks e Pomes Penyeach)

Sentado na porta ancestral
de onde seus olhos
comem alguns sonhos

não podem saltar
nas ruas do mundo
as suas pernas fracas

seus
olhos cansados
lêem o Livro de Job.