Poetry is a fallen monarch
poor begotten
wandering in the streets
in her wretched rags
made of rotten sheets
as if a beautiful girl
wrapped up in wild cotton
of whom we still see
noblesse not forgotten
When dame poetry-beggar comes knocking
(as she usually does, to those she espouses)
Give her water that has been doused from a new pit
earthen-bowl-kept
which you left
at rest
on your desk,
all night
Shut the curtains
and
windows
shut
Turn off
this useless and aerial-less
anti-Icarus monster
called TV
so she don't fly digressing
away (*)
Bring her in and don't ask who's coming
for dinner
(nobody's coming)
Throw the alcohol away
and your ex-job
as well
the music
turn off
Sit with her and listen
merely listen
to what she has to say.
Poetry is a fallen monarch.
_
___
(*)
English translation by Cassiano Terra Rodrigues
Alternative version (verses 18-27 -LM) :
Shut the curtains
and
windows
shut,
so she won't go flying around
Turn off the TV, this monster useless and without antennas
who does not fly
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem