São Paulo, domingo, 15 de janeiro de 1995 |
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Funeral Blues
W.H. AUDEN Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, silence the pianos and, with muffled drums, bring on the coffin, let the mourners come. Let airplanes circle moaning overhead scribbling on the sky the message: he's dead. Put crepe-bows round the white necks of the /public doves, let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West my working week, my Sunday rest, my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now, put out every one. Pack up the moon, dismantle the sun. Pull away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. Texto Anterior: A POESIA QUE DIZ SEU NOME Próximo Texto: Poem Índice |
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