Infância
Meu pai montava a cavalo, ia para o campo.
Minha mãe ficava sentada cosendo.
Meu irmão pequeno dormia.
Eu sozinho menino entre mangueiras
lia a história de Robinson Crusoé,
comprida história que não acaba mais.
No meio-dia branco de luz uma voz que aprendeu
a ninar nos longes da senzala — e nunca se esqueceu
chamava para o café.
Café preto que nem a preta velha
café gostoso
café bom.
Minha mãe ficava sentada cosendo
olhando para mim:
— Psiu . . . Não acorde o menino.
Para o berço onde pousou um mosquito.
E dava um suspiro . . . que fundo!
Lá longe meu pai campeava
no mato sem fim da fazenda.
E eu não sabia que minha história
era mas bonita que a de Robinson Crusoé.
Translations of this Poem
Infancy
My father got on his horse and went to the field.
My mother stayed sitting and sewing.
My little brother slept.
A small boy alone under the mango trees,
I read the story of Robinson Crusoe,
the long story that never comes to an end.
At noon, white with light, a voice that had learned
lullabies long ago in the slave-quarters — and never forgot —
called us for coffee.
Coffee blacker than the black old woman
delicious coffee
good coffee.
My mother stayed sitting and sewing
watching me:
Shh — don’t wake the boy.
She stopped the cradle when a mosquito had lit
and gave a sigh . . . how deep!
Away off there my father went riding
through the farm’s endless wastes.
And I didn’t know that my story
was prettier than that of Robinson Crusoe.
About this poem
This poem, representing Brazil, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.
