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Infância

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

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.


Carlos Drummond de Andrade

from Complete Poems, introduced by Tom Paulin (London: Chatto & Windus, 2004)

translated by Elizabeth Bishop

Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holder. If you can advise us of the appropriate acknowledgement to be made please contact reception@spl.org.uk

Tags:

Brazil childhood coffee reading South American poetry

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.

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