A Flor e a Náusea

　　CarlosDrummond de Andrade

　　Presoà minha classe e a algumas roupas,

　　voude branco pela rua cinzenta.

　　Melancolias,mercadorias, espreitam-me.

　　Devoseguir até o enj?o?

　　Posso,sem armas, revoltar-me?

　　Olhossujos no relógio da torre:

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　　N?o,o tempo n?o chegou de completa justi?a.

　　Otempo é ainda de fezes, maus poemas, alucinaes e espera.

　　Otempo pobre, o poeta pobre

　　fundem-seno mesmo impasse.

　　Emv?o me tento explicar, os muros s?o surdos.

　　Soba pele das palavras há cifras e códigos.

　　Osol consola os doentes e n?o os renova.

　　Ascoisas. Que tristes s?o as coisas, consideradas sem ênfase.

　　Vomitareste tédio sobre a cidade.

　　Quarentaanos e nenhum problema

　　resolvido,sequer colocado.

　　Nenhumacarta escrita nem recebida.

　　Todosos homens voltam para casa.

　　Est?omenos livres mas levam jornais

　　esoletram o mundo, sabendo que o perdem.

　　Crimesda terra, como perdoá-los?

　　Tomeiparte em muitos, outros escondi.

　　Algunsachei belos, foram publicados.

　　Crimessuaves, que ajudam a viver.

　　Raodiária de erro, distribuída em casa.

　　Osferozes padeiros do mal.

　　Osferozes leiteiros do mal.

　　P?rfogo em tudo, inclusive em mim.

　　Aomenino de 1918 chamavam anarquista.

　　Porémmeu ódio é o melhor de mim.

　　Comele me salvo

　　edou a poucos uma esperan?a mínima.

　　Umaflor nasceu na rua!

　　Passemde longe, bondes, ?nibus, rio de a?o do tráfego.

　　Umaflor ainda desbotada

　　iludea polícia, rompe o asfalto.

　　Fa?amcompleto silêncio, paralisem os negócios,

　　garantoque uma flor nasceu.

　　Suacor n?o se percebe.

　　Suaspétalas n?o se abrem.

　　Seunome n?o está nos livros.

　　éfeia. Mas é realmente uma flor.

　　Sento-meno ch?o da capital do país às cinco horas da tarde

　　elentamente passo a m?o nessa forma insegura.

　　Dolado das montanhas, nuvens maci?as avolumam-se.

　　Pequenospontos brancos movem-se no mar, galinhas em panico.

　　éfeia. Mas é uma flor. Furou o asfalto, o tédio, o nojo e o ódio.

　　Nausea and the Flower

　　CarlosDrummond de Andrade

　　Boundby my class and some clothes,

　　Iwalked down the gray street in white.

　　Dejectionsand goods for sale observe me.

　　ShouldI keep on until I’m nauseous?

　　CanI, without weapons, rebel?

　　Grimyeyes in the clock tower:

　　No,the time of full justice has not arrived.

　　It’sstill a time of feces, bad poems, hallucinations, and waiting.

　　Thehapless time and the hapless poet

　　mergein the same impasse.

　　Invain I try to explain myself: the walls are deaf.

　　Beneaththe skin of words: ciphers and codes.

　　Thesun cheers the sick and doesn’t renew them.

　　Things.Considered without emphasis, how sad things are.

　　Andif I vomited this tedium over the city?

　　Fortyyears and not one problem

　　solved,nor even formulated.

　　Notone letter written or received.

　　Thepeople are all going home.

　　They’reless free but carry newspapers

　　andspell out the world, knowing they’ve lost it.

　　Howcan I forgive the world’s crimes?

　　Itook part in many. Others I concealed.

　　SomeI found beautiful, and they were published.

　　Soothingcrimes, which make life more bearable.

　　Adaily ration of error, delivered at our door.

　　Byruthless milkmen of evil.

　　Byruthless bread boys of evil.

　　Andif I set everything on fire, myself included?

　　Theycalled the adolescent of 1918 an anarchist,

　　butmy hatred is the best part of me.

　　Withoutit I’d be lost,

　　andwith it I can give a few people a slight hope.

　　Aflower has sprouted in the street!

　　Buses,streetcars, steel stream of traffic: steer clear!

　　Aflower, still pale, has fooled

　　thepolice, it’s breaking through the asphalt.

　　Let’shave complete silence, halt all business in the shops,

　　Iswear that a flower has been born.

　　Itscolor is uncertain.

　　It’snot showing its petals.

　　Itsname isn’t in the books.

　　It’sugly. But it really is a flower.

　　Isit down on the ground of the nation’s capital at five in the afternoon

　　andfondle with my fingers this precarious form.

　　Inland,over the mountains, thick clouds are gathering.

　　Inthe sea tiny white dots, panicked chickens, are moving.

　　It’sugly. But it’s a flower. It broke the asphalt, tedium, disgust, and hatred.

　　花與惡心

　　(巴西)卡洛斯·德魯蒙德·德·安德拉德

　　被我的階級(jí)和衣著所囚禁，

　　我一身白色走在灰白的街道上。

　　憂(yōu)郁癥和商品窺視著我。

　　我是否該繼續(xù)走下去直到覺(jué)得惡心?

　　我能不能赤手空拳地反抗?

　　鐘樓上的時(shí)鐘里骯臟的眼睛：

　　不，全然公正的時(shí)間并未到來(lái)。

　　時(shí)間依然是糞便、爛詩(shī)、癲狂和拖延。

　　可憐的時(shí)間，可憐的詩(shī)人

　　困在了同樣的僵局里。

　　我徒勞地試圖對(duì)自己解釋?zhuān)瑝Ρ谑敲@的。

　　在詞語(yǔ)的皮膚下，有著暗號(hào)和代碼。

　　太陽(yáng)撫慰著病人，卻沒(méi)有讓他們康復(fù)。

　　事物。那些不引人注目的事物是多么悲傷。

　　沿著城市嘔吐出這種厭倦。

　　四十年了，沒(méi)有任何問(wèn)題

　　被解決，甚至沒(méi)有被排上日程。

　　所有人都回到家里。

　　他們不怎么自由，但可以拿起報(bào)紙

　　拼讀出世界，他們知道自己失去了它。

　　大地上的罪行，怎么可以原諒?

　　我參與了其中的很多，另一些我做得很隱蔽。

　　有些我認(rèn)為很美，讓它們得以出版。

　　柔和的罪行助人活命。

　　錯(cuò)誤像每日的口糧，分發(fā)到家中。

　　烘焙著邪惡的狠心面包師。

　　運(yùn)送著邪惡的狠心牛奶販。

　　把這一切都點(diǎn)上火吧，包括我，

　　交給1918年的一個(gè)被稱(chēng)為無(wú)政府主義者的男孩。

　　然而，我的仇恨是我身上最好的東西。

　　憑借它我得以自救

　　還能留有一點(diǎn)微弱的希望。

　　一朵花當(dāng)街綻放!

　　它們從遠(yuǎn)處經(jīng)過(guò)，有軌電車(chē)，公共汽車(chē)，鋼鐵的車(chē)河。

　　一朵花，盡管還有些黯淡，

　　在躲避警察，穿透瀝青。

　　請(qǐng)你們安靜下來(lái)，停下手里的生意，

　　我確信一朵花正當(dāng)街綻放。

　　它的顏色毫不起眼。

　　它的花瓣還未張開(kāi)。

　　它的名字書(shū)中沒(méi)有記載。

　　它很丑。但它千真萬(wàn)確是一朵花。

　　下午五點(diǎn)鐘，我坐在一國(guó)之都的地面上

　　緩慢地把手伸向這尚未明朗的形狀。

　　在山的那邊，濃密的云團(tuán)在膨脹。

　　一個(gè)個(gè)小白點(diǎn)在海上晃動(dòng)，受驚的雞群。

　　它很丑。但它是一朵花。它捅破了瀝青、厭倦、惡心和仇恨。

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