A Voiceless Cry

 

Photoplotnikov

The sound of green footsteps is the rain

They're coming in from the road, now

Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert

Their breath burning, mirage-mingled

Mouths dry and caked with dust

They're coming in from the road, now

Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain

Joy departed from their faces

Hearts old and lined with cracks

No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips

Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes

O God!

Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,

the vaulted heavens?

The sound of green footsteps is the rain.

Nadia Anjuman

O barbeiro

 

Motion Mídia

Nos últimos meses, olhava-se no espelho

e via um intruso. Irritava-se com ele.

Já estás aqui outra vez? Será possível?

Sai daqui agora mesmo.

Para a rua, vagabundo, dizia-lhe.

Era-lhe doloroso, era-nos doloroso,

toda vez que ele tinha que ir ao banheiro.

Tínhamos que conduzi-lo pelo braço, convence-lo

do porquê.

Ele se tornou o dono desse lugar, dizia,

quem lhe deu as chaves?

Pouco a pouco o do espelho tornou-se mais um em casa.

Chamava-lhe o barbeiro.

Em vão, diziam-lhe que aquele homem era ele.

Eu nunca tentei porque sabia

que aquele homem era outra pessoa,

que em seu delírio ele tinha razão.

Pouco a pouco fomo-nos resignando

à invasão do barbeiro.

Uma noite, ao sair do banheiro, deixou a luz acesa.

Quando minha mãe lhe disse: Deixaste a luz acesa, ele respondeu:

Deixa-o, ele está lá dentro, o que podemos fazer?

Meu pai compreendeu que o barbeiro, o intruso,

tinha vindo busca-lo.

Agora o está barbeando naquela barbearia

que há sempre do outro lado do espelho.

E de lá me olham, sorriem para mim,

me esperam.

Juan Vicente Piqueras

New Year’s Morning

 

Only a night from old to new!

Only a night, and so much wrought!

The Old Year's heart all weary grew,

But said: "The New Year rest has brought."

The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,

As in a grave; but, trusting, said:

"The blossoms of the New Year's crown

Bloom from the ashes of the dead."

The Old Year's heart was full of greed;

With selfishness it longed and ached,

And cried: "I have not half I need.

My thirst is bitter and unslaked.

But to the New Year's generous hand

All gifts in plenty shall return;

True love it shall understand;

By all my failures it shall learn.

I have been reckless; it shall be

Quiet and calm and pure of life.

I was a slave; it shall go free,

And find sweet peace where I leave strife."

Only a night from old to new!

Never a night such changes brought.

The Old Year had its work to do;

No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!

Night and the healing balm of sleep!

Each morn is New Year's morn come true,

Morn of a festival to keep.

All nights are sacred nights to make

Confession and resolve and prayer;

All days are sacred days to wake

New gladness in the sunny air.

Only a night from old to new;

Only a sleep from night to morn.

The new is but the old come true;

Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Helen Hunt Jackson