quarta-feira, 8 de dezembro de 2010

Lord Byron

Uma taça feita de um crânio humano


                               Não recues! De mim não foi-se o espírito...
                               Em mim verás - pobre caveira fria -
                               Único crânio que, ao invés dos vivos,
                               Só derrama alegria.

                               Vivi! amei! bebi qual tu: Na morte
                               Arrancaram da terra os ossos meus.
                               Não me insultes! empina-me!... que a larva
                               Tem beijos mais sombrios do que os teus.

                               Mais vale guardar o sumo da parreira
                               Do que ao verme do chão ser pasto vil;
                                - Taça - levar dos Deuses a bebida,
                               Que o pasto do réptil.

                               Que este vaso, onde o espírito brilhava,
                               Vá nos outros o espírito acender.
                               Ai! Quando um crânio já não tem mais cérebro
                               ...Podeis de vinho o encher!

                               Bebe, enquanto inda é tempo! Uma outra raça,
                               Quando tu e os teus fordes nos fossos,
                               Pode do abraço te livrar da terra,
                               E ébria folgando profanar teus ossos.

                               E por que não? Se no correr da vida
                               Tanto mal, tanta dor ai repousa?
                               É bom fugindo à podridão do lado
                               Servir na morte enfim p'ra alguma coisa!...

                                                                                                          (Tradução de Castro Alves)

..............................................

Lines Inscribed upon a Cup Formed from a Skull

                                Start not --- nor deem my spirit fled;
                                In me behold the only skull,
                                From which, unlike a living head,
                                Whatever flows is never dull.
 
                                 I lived,  I loved,  I quaff'd, like thee:
                                 I died:  let earth my bones resign;
                                 Fill up --- thou canst not injure me;
                                 The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
 
                                 Better to hold the sparkling grape,
                                 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
                                 And circle in the goblet's shape
                                 The drink of gods, than reptile's food.
 
                                 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
                                 In aid of others' let me shine;
                                 And when, alas !   our brains are gone,
                                 What nobler substitute than wine?
 
                                 Quaff while thou canst: another race,
                                 When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
                                 May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
                                 And rhyme and revel with the dead.
 
                                 Why not?    Since through life's little day
                                 Our heads such sad effects produce;
                                 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
                                 This chance is theirs, to be of use.


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