Poem By Eugénio de Andrade
The gaze lets go from ripeness.
I don't know what to do with a gaze
overflowing from a tree,
what to do with that ardour
overflowing from the mouth,
and waiting on the ground to flow back to the source.
I don't know the destiny of light,
but whatever it may be
it is the same as that of a gaze: the same
a delayed pain gathering, the shadow,
of a startled skylark.
Translation: 2003, Alexis Levitin