“Último Porto” by Raimundo Correia (in Portuguese)

Este o país ideal que em sonhos douro;

Aqui o estro das aves me arrebata,

E em flores, cachos e festões, desata

A Natureza o virginal tesouro;

Aqui, perpétuo dia ardente e louro

Fulgura; e, na torrente e na cascata,

A água alardeia toda a sua prata,

E os laranjais e o sol todo o seu ouro...

Aqui, de rosas e de luz tecida,

Leve mortalha envolva estes destroços

Do extinto amor, que inda me pesam tanto;

E a terra, a mãe comum, no fim da vida,

Para a nudeza me cobrir dos ossos,

Rasgue alguns palmos do seu verde manto.

“Canção” by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)

Pus o meu sonho num navio

e o navio em cima do mar;

- depois, abri o mar com as mãos,

para o meu sonho naufragar

Minhas mãos ainda estão molhadas

do azul das ondas entreabertas,

e a cor que escorre de meus dedos

colore as areias desertas.

O vento vem vindo de longe,

a noite se curva de frio;

debaixo da água vai morrendo

meu sonho, dentro de um navio...

Chorarei quanto for preciso,

para fazer com que o mar cresça,

e o meu navio chegue ao fundo

e o meu sonho desapareça.

Depois, tudo estará perfeito;

praia lisa, águas ordenadas,

meus olhos secos como pedras

e as minhas duas mãos quebradas.

“Visions” by Robert E. Howard (in English)

I cannot believe in a paradise

Glorious, undefiled,

For gates all scrolled and streets of gold

Are tales for a dreaming child.

I am too lost for shame

That it moves me unto mirth,

But I can vision a Hell of flame

For I have lived on earth.

"Ballad of Reading Gaol" - Version I, Part I by Oscar Wilde (in English)

I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,

For blood and wine are red,

And blood and wine were on his hands

When they found him with the dead,

The poor dead woman whom he loved,

And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men

In a suit of shabby grey;

A cricket cap was on his head,

And his step seemed light and gay;

But I never saw a man who looked

So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,

Within another ring,

And was wondering if the man had done

A great or little thing,

When a voice behind me whispered low,

'That fellows got to swing.'

Dear Christ! the very prison walls

Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became

Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought

Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved

And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame

On a day of dark disgrace,

Nor have a noose about his neck,

Nor a cloth upon his face,

Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men

Who watch him night and day;

Who watch him when he tries to weep,

And when he tries to pray;

Who watch him lest himself should rob

The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see

Dread figures throng his room,

The shivering Chaplain robed in white,

The Sheriff stern with gloom,

And the Governor all in shiny black,

With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste

To put on convict-clothes,

While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes

Each new and nerve-twitched pose,

Fingering a watch whose little ticks

Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst

That sands one's throat, before

The hangman with his gardener's gloves

Slips through the padded door,

And binds one with three leathern thongs,

That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear

The Burial Office read,

Nor, while the terror of his soul

Tells him he is not dead,

Cross his own coffin, as he moves

Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air

Through a little roof of glass;

He does not pray with lips of clay

For his agony to pass;

Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek

The kiss of Caiaphas.

"O Sorriso do Tio Pavel Pleffel" (Chapter IV) by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Entramos na sala mais estranha que jamais vi! As paredes eram brancas, com círculos concêntricos negros, dando a impressão de serem túneis conduzindo ao infinito.

Espalhados por toda a sala, uma floresta de equipamentos químicos, tubos, espirais, vasos comunicantes de todos os tamanhos, alguns tão grandes que podiam conter uma pessoa dentro deles e outros, minúsculos. Dentro deles, líquidos de todas as cores, a borbulhar alguns, outros plácidos.

O vapor que saía de alguns vidros pareciam entoar uma espécie de canção, mas havia também toda uma sorte de sons que eu não conseguia saber de onde vinham; eram chiados, estalidos, trinados e uivos numa estranha cadência rítmica.

Mas nada disse se comparava ao chão daquela sala!

Era como se o cosmos houvesse sido pintado nele e pintado com tamanha graça e talento que as estrelas pareciam brilhar no espaço negro.

- Elas estão realmente brilhando, disse o Pavel para mim, como se a ler-me os pensamentos.

Até levei um susto!

- O quê?

- As estrelas realmente possuem brilho, repetiu ele.

- Sim. Deve ser uma tinta estrangeira!

- Tinta? Então pensas que meu tio é assim um menininho que pinta estrelas pelo seu laboratório?

Voltei a mirar o chão, sem entender o que ele queria dizer, quando vi um risco de fogo passar a correr pelas estrelas, lá embaixo, tão longe de mim.

Então eu pude entender o Pleffel: o laboratório não tinha chão e nós estávamos mesmo pisando o universo!

            Fui tomado por um grande medo e agarrei-me a ele: onde estamos? Perguntei.

            - Estamos no laboratório do meu tio Clóvis, embora não o tenha avistado, ainda.

            Então ouvimos uma voz abafada:

            - Estou aqui, sobrinho! Aqui!

            Seguimos a voz através daquela imensa quantidade de vidros, até encontrarmos um homezinho gozado dentro de um vidro enorme!

"The Christmas Spirit" by Will Eisner (in English)

1948.

“Night Coming Out Of A Garden” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Through the still air of night

Suddenly comes, alone and shrill,

Like the far-off voice of the distant light,

The single piping trill

Of a bird that has caught the scent of the dawn,

And knows that the night is over ;

(She has poured her dews on the velvet lawn

And drenched the long grass and the clover),

And now with her naked white feet

She is silently passing away,

Out of the garden and into the street,

Over the long yellow fields of the wheat,

Till she melts in the arms of the day.

And from the great gates of the East,

With a clang and a brazen blare,

Forth from the rosy wine and the feast

Comes the god with the flame-flaked hair ;

The hoofs of his horses ring

On the golden stones, and the wheels

Of his chariot burn and sing,

And the earth beneath him reels;

And forth with a rush and a rout

His myriad angels run,

And the world is awake with a shout,

' He is coming ! The sun ! The sun ! '