“The
truck was incinerated, and it is still burning.”
New York Times, 3 de julho de 2010.
Ouviram música
antes de ouvir o temporal
antes do caminhão avultar-se
a um lado da estrada
que como poeirenta
fina pele de cobra
atravessava a cidadezinha
um bando de aves expandindo
as costelas de árvores esbeltas
e onde a estrada espetava
seu dedo em direção ao rio
onde o rio
era a voz de uma mulher
andando para trás
dentro de um sonho
onde sonhavam
em comandar o céu
onde o céu engolia
pássaros e música e onde
as crianças tinham se ensinado
a juntar ar e gasolina
e agora um cachorro anda em círculos
por sobre as cinzas e a terra
úmida cuspe um coração gorduroso
e onde pássaros vermelhos perfuram o entardecer
uma mulher esfaqueia
a terra com sua pá
trabalha a pesar do suor
e os insetos que consomem seus braços
até o momento dela pisar nas profundezas
sem saber como ou quê
onde a estrada se tornou
veia rasgada onde a noite sangrou óleo
e os corpos foram engolidos
na música verde
e se alguma
vez você seguiu
a música que conduzia por uma vereda escura
você chegando silenciado numa igreja
com os
olhos enormes
dos vivos como folhas molhadas
revirando dentro de você
me diga então a quem agradecer
quando der aqueles passos que te botam
no mundo
aí onde uma árvore desperdiça
seus brotos aos teus pés
versão: Miriam Adelman
Through a small city/Kendra DeColo.
They heard music
before they heard the storm
before the truck piles
onto the side of the road
that ran dusty and snake-skinned
through a small town
a flock swelling
inside the ribs of thin trees
and where the road spiked
a finger towards the river
where the river
was the voice of a woman
walking backwards
into a dream
where they dreamed
of running the sky
where the sky swallowed
birds and music and where
children had taught themselves
to gather air and gasoline
and a dog now makes circles
into the ash and damp
dirt spits up an oily heart
and where red birds pierce the dusk
a woman stabs
her shovel into the ground
works through sweat
and insects eating her arms
until she stands in the deep
not knowing how or what
where the road was a ripped vein
and the night bled oil
and bodies swallowed up
in the green music
and if you have ever followed
singing down a dark path
arriving at a church hushed
with the enormous eyes
of the living like wet leaves
turning through you
tell me who you thank
when you step out into the world
where a tree has wasted
its blossoms at your feet.
Through a small city/Kendra DeColo.
They heard music
before they heard the storm
before the truck piles
onto the side of the road
that ran dusty and snake-skinned
through a small town
a flock swelling
inside the ribs of thin trees
and where the road spiked
a finger towards the river
where the river
was the voice of a woman
walking backwards
into a dream
where they dreamed
of running the sky
where the sky swallowed
birds and music and where
children had taught themselves
to gather air and gasoline
and a dog now makes circles
into the ash and damp
dirt spits up an oily heart
and where red birds pierce the dusk
a woman stabs
her shovel into the ground
works through sweat
and insects eating her arms
until she stands in the deep
not knowing how or what
where the road was a ripped vein
and the night bled oil
and bodies swallowed up
in the green music
and if you have ever followed
singing down a dark path
arriving at a church hushed
with the enormous eyes
of the living like wet leaves
turning through you
tell me who you thank
when you step out into the world
where a tree has wasted
its blossoms at your feet.
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