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quarta-feira, março 11, 2009

"CINO"

Soaroir
10/3/09

Puro sangue vira-latas
sem dono, rumando outra estrada
curvado diante da atenção -
breve, de cadelas para um cão.

Dedilhando a mesma lira
graciosa em todo seu aspecto
nos plectros e diapasão -
mesmo assim é só canção.

...
...
NOTA: (Cino é uma comuna italiana da região da Lombardia, província de Sondrio, com cerca de 335 habitantes. Estende-se por uma área de 5 km2, tendo uma densidade populacional de 67 hab/km2. Faz fronteira com Cercino, Dubino, Mantello, Novate Mezzola. Fonte: Wikipedia
Acepções: " elemento de composição: antepositivo do gr. kúón,kunós 'cão, cadela" Houaiss)

Mote:
"Lábios, palavras, e lhes armamos armadilhas,
Sonhos, palavras, e são como jóias,
Estranhos bruxedos de velha divindade,
Corvos, noites, carícia:
E eis que não o são;
Já se tornaram almas de canção."

("CINO", Ezra Pound, tradução de Mário Faustino)




CINO
Ezra Pound


Italian Campagna 1309, the open road

"Bah! I have sung women in three cities,
But it is all the same;
And I will sing of the sun.

Lips, words, and you snare them,
Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.

Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes.
Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for wind-runeing
They dream us-toward and
Sighing, say, ``Would Cino,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe.
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light,
Would Cino of the Luth were here!''

Once, twice a year---
Vaguely thus word they:

``Cino?'' ``Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi
The singer is't you mean?''
``Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . .
(Oh they are all one these vagabonds),
Peste! 'tis his own songs?
Or some other's that he sings?
But *you*, My Lord, how with your city?''

My you ``My Lord,'' God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
O Sinistro.

I have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . eh? . . . they mostly had grey eyes,
But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.

``'Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you
Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us
Hath for boss thy lustre gay!

'Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare
Make thy laugh our wander-lied;
Bid thy 'flugence bear away care.
Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way
To the gardens of the sun . . .

* * *

I have sung women in three cities
But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea."

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