In January
Ted Kooser
Only one cell
in the frozen hive of night
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city
creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city
creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.
Em janeiro
Somente uma luz celeste na congelada colméia da noite
está acesa, ou assim nos parece:
este café vietnamita, com a sua luz oleosa,
com seus odores, cujas formas coloridas são como flores.
Rindo e conversando, o retinir de pauzinhos.
Além do vidro, o inverno da cidade
Range como uma velha ponte de madeira.
Um grande vento corre sob todos nós.
Quanto maior a janela, maior o tremor.
No comments:
Post a Comment