Bom, enquanto Sabrina e eu vamos preparando novas traduções, publico mais um poema meu. Escrito numa época de intensa convivência com a obra de Diane.
The numbers in my head are screaming.
The long list of severed names, the places
where the glinting train came to its
lurching halt. The blue lights
of a desert highway where angels
are spawned, where iguanas
blink and scuttle off into the
night. Some end of the road
Bagdad Café, some Last Chance
Texaco where you found her:
the one who made you forget me
again. A dancer perhaps. A
little one with a yellow spin of hair
who plays a shiny silver flute.
the eastern sounds floating out
into your tiny emerald oasis.
She doesn´t partake of the pomegranates.
the big chunks of crusty bread. Doesn´t
laugh loudly. Flutters in your life
like a wish, wispy, tantalizing. The
tatooed wrists, the small
bangled feet making no sound.