Words
They are like a crystal,
words.
Some a dagger,
some a blaze.
Others,
merely dew.
Secret they come, full of memory.
Insecurely they sail:
cockleboats or kisses,
the waters trembling.
Abandoned, innocent,
weightless.
They are woven of light.
They are the night.
And even pallid
they recall green paradise.
Who hears them? Who
gathers them, thus,
cruel, shapeless,
in their pure shells?
Eugénio de Andrade
They are like a crystal,
words.
Some a dagger,
some a blaze.
Others,
merely dew.
Secret they come, full of memory.
Insecurely they sail:
cockleboats or kisses,
the waters trembling.
Abandoned, innocent,
weightless.
They are woven of light.
They are the night.
And even pallid
they recall green paradise.
Who hears them? Who
gathers them, thus,
cruel, shapeless,
in their pure shells?
Eugénio de Andrade
1 comment:
This is gorgeous. I love so much poetry. Thank you so much, RA.
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