Interior

Grappled flesh

of the fully other and one.

And each thing here, as if it were the last thing

to be said: the sound of a word

married to death, and the life

that is this force in me

to disappear.

Shutters closed. The dust

of a former self, emptying the space

I do not fill. This light

that grows in the corner of the room

has moved.

Night repeats. A voice that speaks to me

only of smallest things.

Not even things - but their names.

And where no names are -

of stones. The clatter of goats

climbing through the villages

of noon. A scarab

devoured in the sphere

of its own dung. And the violet swarm

of butterflies beyond.

In the impossibility of words,

in the unspoken word

that asphyxiates,

I find myself.

Paul Auster

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Noites Brancas

Ninguém aqui,

e o corpo diz: tudo que se diga

não se deve dizer. Mas ninguém

também é corpo, e o que diz o corpo

ninguém escuta

além de ti.

Neve e noite. A iteração

de um assasinato

enter árvores. A pena

corre pela terra: não sabe mais

o que há de ser, e a mão que a sustém

sumiu.

Mesmo assim, escreve.

Escreve: no começo,

entre as árvores, um corpo vem andando

da noite. Escreve:

o branco do corpo

é da cor da terra. É a terra,

e a terra escreve: tudo

é da cor do silêncio.

Não estou mais aqui. Jamais disse

o que dizes

que disse. E, no entanto, o corpo é um lugar

onde nada morre. E a noite toda,

dentre o silêncio das árvores, tu sabes

que minha voz 

vem andando para ti.

Paul Auster

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Tradução: Caetano W. Galindo

White Nights

No one here,

and the body says: whatever is said

is not to be said. But no one

is a body as well, and what the body says

is heard by no one

but you.

Snowfall and night. The repetition

of a murder

among the trees. The pen

moves across the earth: it no longer knows

what will happen, and the hand that holds it

has disappeared.

Nevertheless, it writes.

It writes: in the beginning,

among the trees, a body came walking

from the night. It writes:

the body's whiteness

is the color of earth. It is earth,

and the earth writes: everything

is the color of silence.

I am no longer here. I have never said

what you say

I have said. And yet, the body is a place

where nothing dies. And each night,

from the silence of the trees, you know

that my voice

comes walking toward you.

Paul Auster

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