Desmond Painter. Terug in die tuig

Pas terug uit São Paulo: wat ‘n stad! ‘n Intense, besige 10 dae: vier lesings, ‘n string formele en informele ontmoetings, etes en verkeersknope, ure wat ek steel om op my eie te gaan stap. Kilometers te voet. Moltrein wanneer ek te moeg is vir die pad terug. Saans in die woonstel bestudeer ek die kaart; nie om die volgende roete te beplan nie, om te sien of ek my spoor kan vind. Ek moet probeer om iets hiervan neer te skryf; ek het dit nodig, die ervaring wil nog nie stol nie. Hier is solank ‘n vers deur een van die grootste Brasiliaanse digters van die vorige eeu:

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Don’t Kill Yourself – Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Carlos, keep calm, love
is what you’re seeing now;
today a kiss, tomorrow no kiss,
day after day tomorrow’s Sunday
and nobody knows what will happen
Monday.

It’s useless to resist
or to commit suicide.
Don’t kill yourself. Don’t kill yourself!
Keep all of yourself for the nuptials
coming nobody knows when,
that is, if they ever come.

Love, Carlos, tellurian,
spent the night with you,
and now your insides are raising
an ineffable racket,
prayers,
victrolas,
saints crossing themselves,
ads for better soap,
a racket of which nobody
knows the why or wherefor.

In the meantime, you go on your way
vertical, melancholy.
You’re the palm tree, you’re the cry
nobody heard in the theatre
and all the lights went out.
Love in the dark, no, love
in the daylight, is always sad,
sad, Carlos, my boy,
but tell it to nobody,
nobody knows nor shall know.