Te enterre en el jardin:
una fosa
miniscula
como una mano abierta,
tierra
austral,
tierra fria
fue cubriendo
tu plumaje,
los rayos amarillos,
los relampagos negros
de tu cuerpo apagado.
Del Matto Gross,
De la fertile Goiania,
Te enviaron’encerado.
No podias.
Tu fuiste.
En la jaula
con las pequenas
patas tiesas,
como agarradas
a una rama invisible,
muerto,
um pobre atado
de plumas
extinguidas,
lejos
de los fuegos natales,
de la madre
espesura,
em tierra fria,
lejos.
Ave
purisima,
te conoci viviemte,
electrico,
agitado,
rumoroso,
una flecha
fragante
era tu cuerpo,
por mi brazo y mis hombros
anduviste
independiemte, indomito,
negro de piedra negra
y polen amarillo.
Oh salvaje
hermosura,
la direccion erguida
de tus pasos,
en tus ojos
la chispa
del desafio, pero
asi
como uma flor es desafiamte,
con la entereza
de una Terrestre integridad, colmado
como un racimo, inquieto
como un descubridor,
seguro
de su debil arrogancia.

Hice mal, al otono
que comiemza
em mi patria,.
a las hojas
que ahora desfallecem
y se caen,
al viento Sur, galvinico,
a los arboles duros, a las hojas
que tu no conocias,
te traje,
hice viajar tu orgullo
a otro sol cenciento
lejos del tuyo
quemate
como citra escarlata,
y cuamdo
al aerodromo metalico
tu jaula
descemdio,
ya no tenias
la majestad del viento,
ya estaba despojado
la majestad del viento,
ya estabas despojado
de la luz cenital que te cubria,
ya eras
una pluma de la muerte,
y luego,
en mi casa,
fue tu mirada ultima
a mi rostro, el reproche
de tu mirada indomable.
Entonces,
con las alas cerradas,
regresaste
a tu cielo,
al corazon extemso,
al fuego verde,
a la tierra encendida,
a las vertientes,
a las enredaderas,
a las frutas,
al aire, a las estrellas,
al sonido secreto
de los desconocidos manantiales,
a la humedad
de las fecundaciones en la selva,
regresaste
a tu origen,
al fulgor amarillio,
al pecho oscuro,
a la tierra y al cielo de un patria.

 

 

ODE TO A SAFFRON FINCH

I interred you in the garden:
a tiny pit
no bigger
than an open hand,
southern
earth,
cold earth
slowly covered
your plumage,
yellow rays,
black lightning
of your extinguished body.
Of Mato Grosso,
of the fertile Goiania,
they sent you
confined to a cage.
You couldn’t.
You left.
In the cage
with the stiff
little legs,
as if clasping onto
an invisible branch,
dead,
a poor bundle
of extinct feathers,
far
from the native fires
of the maternal
thicket,
in the cold earth,
far away.
For heaven’s sake!
I met you alive,
electric,
agitated,
buzzing,
a blatant
arrow, your body

skipped along
my arm and my shoulders
independently, untamed
black with black stone
and yellow pollen.
Oh wild
beauty,
the upright direction
of your steps,
in your eyes
the spark
of challenge, but
just as
a flower is inspiring,
of earthly integrity, full
like a cluster, restless
as a discoverer,
confidant
in your frail arrogance.

I did wrong: to the autumn
that begins
in my homeland,
to the leaves
that now faint
and fall,
to the south wind, galvanized
to the durable trees, to leaves
that you did not know
I brought you,
I made your pride travel
to another ashen sun
far from yours
dearly
like a scarlet zither,
and when
your cage
descended
to the metal hangar,
you no longer had
the majesty of the wind,
you were already stripped
of the light overhead
that covered you,

you were already
a feather of death,
and then
in my house
it was your last look
at my face, the reproach
of your indomitable gaze.
Then,
with closed wings,
you returned
to heaven,
to the extensive heart,
to the green fire,
to the lit earth,
to the slopes,
to the vines,
to the fruits,
to the air,
to the stars,
to the secret
sounds of unknown springs,
to the humidity
of the fertilizations of the jungle,
you returned
to your origin,
to the yellow glow,
to the dark breast,
to the earth and to the sky of your homeland.