Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Peace tries to land in Vietnam,
but only after a cautious examination.
Day after day, month following month,
flutters, runs away, hovers again.
If a bomb, coming down, cuts its flight?
If they lock it in the cage, and it goes to the Zoo
like a rare animal of extinct species?
If they stain it with some black ink?
If, running from nature and its norm,
it will be asked to lay some quail eggs?
Or even, as was done in the past,
they deplume and munch it in a stew?
The destiny of doves is very unsure;
in the shadows the sparrow-hawk targets, hidden.
White-bear or falcon? On each bank,
Power-Ambition stains the landscape.
And the people — which dove will take the left-overs
between thunderings, trumpets and stratagems.
Let’s go, darling, decide, face the risk
of coming down and being made a snack of.
No one could face anymore the trololo
of this chat with no end, not even Jo,
if he lived again, could imagine us,
here, there, in the Occident or Orient,
already fed up with this stupid serial
of sadism, blood and lies.
Are you an opportunist dove? Do you carry in the beak
the election’s password of your rich-cousin?
What does it matter, if what matters first of all
is to give a rest to the hungry, sad, dumb
civilian harvesting death where he used to harvest
rice — in a harvest of agony.
Oh, stop this subject. I look at the palm tree
visited by lightning, giving shade
yet in its vertical stroke,
more serene than mortal.
The marble inscription goes, but there remains
the longlined forest cut.
Hail, palm-princess, quiet line,
even with death walking your backbone!
Behold, there appears on the beach the Venusian
mirage of a splendorous girl —
better say: young woman — and from her bosom
unfurls the majestic panorama to the sun
Horror! beauty! heavens! For such a great
affront, jet-quick, Façanha is to be called!
Who is going to call? Who leaves the hot sand,
who, in emotion, won’t show the pale face?
You go. I’m not going. Neither am I.
Want to stay here, grooving.
And if Façanha comes, t.v. told,
probably, who knows? will be quiet,
drunk in beauty’s dream,
of grace in flower, of nature’s flower.
But attention, women, to this warning:
fashion demands a gram of discernment
and, as beauty deserves my respect,
it is only valid for those who take heart.
Only that which is perfect, contemplated,
reveals itself, illuminated.