Lazarus

“Lazarus, arise,” you said.
And I arose.
I walked out of the darkness into the sunlight.
I shielded my eyes with my hand against the sun.
I stood there and waited.
I waited for you to tell me what to do next.
What did you want me to do?
Did you want me to speak of what death was?
Did you want me to go to my family and resume my life?
Did you want me to follow you in your preaching?
To testify on your behalf as a maker of miracles?
I stood there.
I waited.
You never told me what to do.
So when all of you were gone, I took down my hand from my eyes.
I turned and walked into the tomb.
I waited to die again.
I waited to die from thirst.
I waited to die from hunger.
It took a long time.

Lázaro

“Lázaro, levanta-te!”, disseste.
E eu ergui-me.
Saí da escuridão para a luz do sol.
Protegi os meus olhos com a mão.
Fiquei ali à espera.
À espera de que me dissesses o que fazer.
Que querias que eu fizesse?
Que falasse sobre o que era a morte?
Que voltasse para a minha família e reatasse a minha vida?
Que te acompanhasse na pregação?
Que testemunhasse a teu favor como fazedor de milagres?
Fiquei ali.
À espera.
Nunca me disseste o que fazer.
Assim, quando todos abalaram, tirei a mão dos olhos.
Virei-me e voltei para o túmulo.
À espera de morrer de novo.
De sede.
De fome.
Levou imenso tempo.

*

That red wheelbarrow

How disappointed I was
when I found out
that the story wasn’t true,
that he had noticed it
through the window
of the room of the sick
little girl he was called
to tend to, but that it
actually belonged
to an old black street
vendor in Rutherford.
Of course, so much did
depend on it regardless
of whose it was,
and the rain water
did still glisten on it,
and the white chickens
were still white and
were still going to get
their throats cut. So
perhaps it’s a good thing
it was the street vendor’s.
The little girl would
have given them names.

O carro de mão vermelho

Que desapontado fiquei
quando soube
que a história não era verdadeira,
que dera conta dele
pela janela
do quarto da miúda
adoentada que fora
chamado a consultar, mas que
na verdade pertencia
a um velho vendedor ambulante
negro em Rutherford.
Claro que tanta coisa
dependia dele a quem quer
que pertencesse,
a água da chuva
ainda nele cintilava,
os frangos brancos
ainda eram brancos e
ainda iam ter os pescoços
cortados. Talvez fosse
pois uma boa coisa
pertencer ao vendedor.
A miúda ter-lhes-ia
posto nomes.

_
▪ J. R. Solonche
(U.S.A. 🇺🇲)

*

Mudado para português por _ Francisco José Craveiro de Carvalho   Poeta, Tradutor e Matemático