Sculpting in Time (II)

Neste que se proclama como sendo o Dia Mundial da Poesia, deixo o devido destaque a um grande poeta soviético. Falo de Arseny Tarkovsky, pai do mestre Andrei Tarkovsky. 

Eurydice

A person has one body,

Singleton, all on its own,

The soul has had more than enough

Of being cooped up inside

A casing with ears and eyes

The size of a five-penny piece

And skin—just scar after scar—

Covering a structure of bone.

Out through the cornea it flies

Into the bowl of the sky,

On to an icy spoke,

To a wheeling flight of birds,

And hears through the barred window

Of its living prison-cell

The crackle of forests and corn-fields

The trumpet of seven seas.

A bodyless soul is sinful

Like a body without a shirt—

No intention, nothing gets done,

No inspiration, never a line.

A riddle with no solution:

Who is going to come back

After dancing on the dance-floor

Where there's nobody to dance?

And I dream of a different soul

Dressed in other clothes:

Burning as it runs

From timidity to hope,

Spiritous and shadowless

Like fire it travels the earth,

Leaves lilac behind on the table

To be remembered by.

Run along then, child, don't fret

Over poor Eurydice,

Bowl your copper hoop along

Whip it through the world,

So long as even quarter pitch

With cheerful tone and cold

In answer to each step you take

The earth rings in your ears

Arseniy Tarkovsky

(Translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair)