The syllable Poem by Eugénio de Andrade
The syllable
All morning I was searching for a syllable.
It's very little, that's for sure: a vowel,
a consonant, practically nothing.
But I feel its absence. Only I know
how much I miss it.
That's why I searched for it so stubbornly.
Only it could shield me from
January cold, the drought
of summer. A syllable.
A single syllable.
Salvation.
Translation: Alexis Levitin
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 11:17:38 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
