Nights of End
There are nights that are eternal and there are nights that are unreal,
That stick to the skin, that insist on existing albeit against the will of the moonlight,
Even if the boats have been swallowed by the tempest
And the sea is empty. Even though the river has died and such death gave birth to a swamp,
The precise instant the water flow ceased.
There are nights that brand like an unwanted tattoo
And it stays, present in the brain, in the eyes of others, blindsided by the light of tedium.
There are nights that should be stopped, that should let us sleep,
That should crush and wring the pillow into our dreams, to put them to sleep too.
Have the eyes stop, the eyes that also deliver, shut, imagery for the inside,
Waste, garbage, everything is garbage, garbage that always ends in an abyss, the ultimate garbage of all.
If only I could still heed the warm breeze conveying the yellowish flavors
Tonight, on a night almost the same, almost the same numbers,
Were it not for the weight and burden of the dust, the dust that was brought from faraway, that is brought since forever.
Stockholm’s rain did not discourage the hunger for eternal nights,
The wind did not take away the want of open flesh, sweet Nordic flesh,
Only rabid foxes that'll cling to your legs for a mere glance, live in the hours of darkness
Unreal in the world where the seed was planted, so full of garbage,of soil and lands, of lives and deaths,
Of flesh that did not stay on, today only a few scars on tissue that refuses to regenerate.
Drink up, Drink up, and void the tedium with the annihilation of all senses
Any fiber of will, any given desire within walking distance, yet I stay on…
Stay in the unreal night that sticks to the skin, skin-tight, a black leech fattening on inebriated blood,
Where wolves starve to death, without a single sparkle in their dull eyes, and without a moon worthy of their howls.
The boats sink in the shadows, into the black and low waters of the river that leisurely dies,
Dreams cannot be seen with so much moonlight overshadowing, drowning out the stars.
There are nights that are not worth it, that should be spent on a bus
Crossing mountains, houses in ruins, moribund lands, and neglected bridges,
Heading towards the dawn of a new world.
25.08.2010
Torre de Dona Chama
João Bosco Silva, translated from portuguese by Sónia Oliveira
