Garden Poem by Gonçalo Manuel Tavares

Garden

Rating: 3.5


There are no precious stones, there are no safes,
nor buried treasures to play pirates.
None talks with each other - dumb, you'll say, or uninterested.
The elements here present have certain colours,
one form or other, smell, and no more.
None of them values the extraordinary invention of the alphabet,
nor the latest novelty in engineering.
Round here the word concrete is
indelicate.
They don't speak, that's true, but they hear perhaps.
They are recipients, yes: water and sweet words that make them grow
(the least useless ones in the dictionary.)
And they'll give out something, for sure, for thus the world was made:
of innumerable exchanges,
but what they give is not known, it's only felt: they give beauty.
Yes, flowers, weeds circumscribed to their place
- the one of inconsequential meanness -
bushes undecided between growing further
or staying as they are looking closely
at ants and other friendly species.
And also: four tall trees. Here is the garden.
However, this one's authority doesn't come from the trees,
but from small details.
For example: the business man goes around
not to tread on a minute flower.
Will he be late for his meeting?

Translated by Ana Hudson

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success