Melted in the Crucible

(Photo from the movie Spirited Away) This translation is an excerpt from one of Manuel Bandeira's poems. Life is a miracle. Each flower, With its shape, its color, its scent, Each flower is a miracle. Each bird, With its plumage, in its flight, chirping, Each bird is a miracle. Space, so boundless, Space is a miracle. Time, unfathomable, Time is a miracle. Memory is a miracle. Self-awareness is a miracle. Everything is a miracle. Everything but death.

  My own translation - into Portuguese - of this beautiful gem of Shakespeare's on grief. Luto enche o quarto de meu filho ausente,  Deita em seu leito, sobe e desce a mim,  Assume o belo porte, a fala imita,  Lembrando-me de todo o seu encanto,  Os trajes vagos veste com sua forma;  Este o motivo de gozar o luto.  Luto, adeus! foste tu sofrer a perda,  Dar-te-ia consolo bem melhor,  Tirarei esta forma da cabeça,  Pois me é tal o desvario no pensar.  Senhor! Meu filho Arthur, menino meu!  Mi'a vida, gozo, pão, meu mundo todo!  Consolo, alento, unção p'ra minha dor! Diniz Junior, E. M., & Shakespeare, W. (1998). William Shakespeare - King John Ato III, Cena IV. Cadernos De Literatura Em Tradução , (2), 20-21.

  Disenchantment Manuel Bandeira I write these verses as I weep, With disenchantment and dismay. Please close my book if now in glee You have no reason to cry, I pray. My verse is blood. It's burning lust... It's scattered grief and vain remorse. It hurts my veins; it makes me flush. It oozes, drop by drop, in sores. These lines, this anguish, this hoarse cry They flow like life from my dry lips, They leave an acrid aftertaste. I write these verses at death's door.

  Another Romantic poet from Brazil: Júlio Salusse (1872-1948). My translation. A vision Júlio Salusse On a steed and speedily, leaving a trail of dust, there goes a Giant, impassive, indifferent to life or death! In his arms I see, asleep, a maid, fantastic, sublime! Fair hair of golden illusion. Pale face, shattered illusions. In awe I cry to the Giant: "Who are you? Is she your lover?" And the rider - Time - replies: "I'm all and naught at once. This Lady that now you see, is your Youth in my arms, dead!"

  Cinnamon trees will weep for her Alphonsus de Guimaraens Cinnamon trees will weep for her; Their flowers will wither at the fall of the day. In orange groves fruits will fall on the ground In remembrance of the one who used to pick them.  The stars will mourn, “We’ve come to nought", As she lies there, so still and cold. Their eyes on her, their sister, grieve For her who used to smile at them. The moon, her loving mother, Who’d seen her live and love, With lilies, petals, holds her. My dreams of love are dead. In heaven archangels cry,  "Why haven’t they come together?"

This is my translation of a simple and yet touching poem by Junqueira Freire (1832-1855), of Brazil's Romanticism. AN ORPHAN SEWING She taught her to raise her pure, innocent hands to heaven and seek first a glimpse of her Maker. Flechier My mother was beautiful,  She was all my joy, All that I loved.  Her hair was so fair,  Like a golden ribbon  In such splendor. Her radiant locks  Fell so long Her feet to kiss.  On hearing my complaints,  In those golden locks She enveloped me. When I was cold And my soul trembled,  And the sun was hidden,  Her long hair,  Like warm threads,  Covered me as a sheet. My mother was beautiful,  She was all my joy, All that I loved.  Her eyes were soft,  Like the chirping of birds  Above the shepherd's hut. My mother was so beautiful,  I remember her so vividly, Everything about her! Close to my chest I keep Her holy words to me, The laughter she filled me with. My faltering steps For long moments Her own have guided. My silent, still lips, At the