“A Catedral” by Alphonsus de Guimaraens (in Portuguese)

Entre brumas ao longe surge a aurora,

O hialino orvalho aos poucos se evapora,

Agoniza o arrebol.

A catedral eburnea do meu sonho

Aparece na paz do ceu risonho

Toda branca de sol.

E o sino canta em lugebres responsos:

"Pobre Alphonsus! Pobre Alphonsus!"

O astro glorioso segue a eterna estrada.

Uma aurea seta lhe cintila em cada

Refulgente raio de luz.

A catedral eburnea do meu sonho,

Onde os meus olhos tao cansados ponho,

Recebe a bencao de Jesus.

E o sino clama em lugebres responsos:

"Pobre Alphonsus! Pobre Alphonsus!"

Por entre lirios e lilases desce

A tarde esquiva: amargurada prece

Poe-se a luz a rezar.

A catedral eburnea do meu sonho

Aparece na paz do ceu tristonho

Toda branca de luar.

E o sino chora em lugebres responsos:

"Pobre Alphonsus! Pobre Alphonsus!"

O ceu e todo trevas: o vento uiva.

Do relampago a cabeleira ruiva

Vem acoitar o rosto meu.

A catedral eburnea do meu sonho

Afunda-se no caos do ceu medonho

Como um astro que ja morreu.

E o sino chora em lugebres responsos:

"Pobre Alphonsus! Pobre Alphonsus!"

“Canção de Ninar” by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)

Canção da tarde no campo

Caminho do campo verde

estrada depois de estrada.

Cerca de flores, palmeiras,

serra azul, água calada.

Eu ando sozinha

no meio do vale.

Mas a tarde é minha.

Meus pés vão pisando a terra

Que é a imagem da minha vida:

tão vazia, mas tão bela,

tão certa, mas tão perdida!

Eu ando sozinha

por cima de pedras.

Mas a tarde é minha.

Os meus passos no caminho

são como os passos da lua;

vou chegando, vai fugindo,

minha alma é a sombra da tua.

Eu ando sozinha

por dentro de bosques.

Mas a fonte é minha.

De tanto olhar para longe,

não vejo o que passa perto,

meu peito é puro deserto.

Subo monte, desço monte.

Eu ando sozinha

ao longo da noite.

Mas a estrela é minha.

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

IV.

There is no chapel on the day

On which they hang a man:

The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,

Or his face is far to wan,

Or there is that written in his eyes

Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,

And then they rang the bell,

And the Warders with their jingling keys

Opened each listening cell,

And down the iron stair we tramped,

Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,

But not in wonted way,

For this man's face was white with fear,

And that man's face was grey,

And I never saw sad men who looked

So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

We prisoners called the sky,

And at every careless cloud that passed

In happy freedom by.

But their were those amongst us all

Who walked with downcast head,

And knew that, had each go his due,

They should have died instead:

He had but killed a thing that lived

Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time

Wakes a dead soul to pain,

And draws it from its spotted shroud,

And makes it bleed again,

And makes it bleed great gouts of blood

And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb

With crooked arrows starred,

Silently we went round and round

The slippery asphalte yard;

Silently we went round and round,

And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,

And through each hollow mind

The memory of dreadful things

Rushed like a dreadful wind,

An Horror stalked before each man,

And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,

And kept their herd of brutes,

Their uniforms were spick and span,

And they wore their Sunday suits,

But we knew the work they had been at

By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,

There was no grave at all:

Only a stretch of mud and sand

By the hideous prison-wall,

And a little heap of burning lime,

That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,

Such as few men can claim:

Deep down below a prison-yard,

Naked for greater shame,

He lies, with fetters on each foot,

Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime

Eats flesh and bone away,

It eats the brittle bone by night,

And the soft flesh by the day,

It eats the flesh and bones by turns,

But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow

Or root or seedling there:

For three long years the unblessed spot

Will sterile be and bare,

And look upon the wondering sky

With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint

Each simple seed they sow.

It is not true! God's kindly earth

Is kindlier than men know,

And the red rose would but blow more red,

The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!

Out of his heart a white!

For who can say by what strange way,

Christ brings his will to light,

Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore

Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red

May bloom in prison air;

The shard, the pebble, and the flint,

Are what they give us there:

For flowers have been known to heal

A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,

Petal by petal, fall

On that stretch of mud and sand that lies

By the hideous prison-wall,

To tell the men who tramp the yard

That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall

Still hems him round and round,

And a spirit man not walk by night

That is with fetters bound,

And a spirit may not weep that lies

In such unholy ground,

He is at peace-this wretched man-

At peace, or will be soon:

There is no thing to make him mad,

Nor does Terror walk at noon,

For the lampless Earth in which he lies

Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:

They did not even toll

A requiem that might have brought

Rest to his startled soul,

But hurriedly they took him out,

And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,

And gave him to the flies;

They mocked the swollen purple throat

And the stark and staring eyes:

And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud

In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray

By his dishonored grave:

Nor mark it with that blessed Cross

That Christ for sinners gave,

Because the man was one of those

Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed

To Life's appointed bourne:

And alien tears will fill for him

Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourner will be outcast men,

And outcasts always mourn.

“Plainte Eternelle” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

The sun sinks down, the tremulous daylight dies.

(Down their long shafts the weary sunbeams glide.)

The white-winged ships drift with the falling tide,

Come back, my love, with pity in your eyes!

The tall white ships drift with the falling tide.

(Far, far away I hear the seamews' cries.)

Come back, my love, with pity in your eyes !

There is no room now in my heart for pride.

Come back, come back ! with pity in your eyes.

(The night is dark, the sea is fierce and wide.)

There is no room now in my heart for pride,

Though I become the scorn of all the wise.

I have no place now in my heart for pride.

(The moon and stars have fallen from the skies.)

Though I become the scorn of all the wise,

Thrust, if you will, sharp arrows in my side.

Let me become the scorn of all the wise.

(Out of the East I see the morning ride.)

Thrust, if you will, sharp arrows in my side,

Play with my tears and feed upon my sighs.

Wound me with swords, put arrows in my side.

(On the white sea the haze of noon-day lies.)

Play with my tears and feed upon my sighs,

But come, my love, before my heart has died.

Drink my salt tears and feed upon my sighs.

(Westward the evening goes with one red stride.)

Come back, my love, before my heart has died,

Down sinks the sun, the tremulous daylight dies.

Come back ! my love, before my heart has died.

(Out of the South I see the pale moon rise.)

Down sinks the sun, the tremulous daylight dies,

The white-winged ships drift with the falling tide.

"The Man Who Murdered Himself" by Otto Binder (in English)

art by Berni Wrightson - House of Mystery vol.1 #228 - DC Comics, January 1975.

"O Sorriso do Tio Pavel Pleffel" (Chapters XV and XVI) by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

CAPÍTULO XV

            Paramos em frente a uma enorme casa, algo sombria. Eram quatro andares de casa e uma torre com terraço.

            Meu tio disse:

            - Porta, o primo de Borge está em casa?

            E a porta respondeu: Só um minuto, sr. Pleffel que vou ver.

            A porta se foi para dentro da casa e depois de algum tempo, voltou: Seu primo o aguarda na biblioteca, sr. Pleffel.

            - Obrigado, querida.

            Ela então abriu-se para nós e entramos.

CAPÍTULO XVI

             Tio Pavel caminhou com segurança pela casa enorme, subindo escadas e percorrendo corredores intermináveis até chegar diante de uma grande porta dupla de mandeira negra, toda esculpida com mil figuras bonitas.

            Abriu-a e entramos em enorme salão, obviamente uma biblioteca. As vastas paredes eram cobertas por livros e livros emplhavam-se no chão e sobre meses.

            Numa grande mesa, próxima a larga janela, uma coruja velha debruçava-se sobre grandes volumes.

            Levantou os olhos para nós e, reconhecendo o tio, piscou seus grandes olhos amarelos e exclamou, toda feliz:

            - Pavel Pleffel!

            - Primo de Borge!

            A coruja voou até ele e o abraçou.

            - Como estás, primo? disse ela.

            - Muitíssimo bem! Vejo que tens livros novos!

            - Oh, sim! Tanto para ler, para aprender! E quem é esse menino?

            - Meu amigo Sérgio.

            - Bem vindo à minha humilde casinha, Sérgio!

            - Nossa! O sr. Deve saber um monte de coisas, se leu tudo isso!

            - Ler é a mais rápida e indolor forma de aprender, sim, e de fato sei alguma coisinha. Houve um tempo em que meus conselhos auxiliaram bastante Athenas.

            - Quem?

            - Uma deusa de tempos idos.

            - O sr. Conheceu uma deusa?

            - Conheci de tudo um pouco em minha longa vida! O mago Merlin, por exemplo! Era o único capaz de vencer-me no jogo de xadrez!

            - O mago Merlin?

            - E o rei Artur e sua turma!

            - Nossa! O sr. deve ter tido uma vida maravilhosa!

            - “Tido”? retrucou a coruja. Mas ainda a tenho! Olhe estes livros! E tenho minha família e meus amigos!

            - Desculpe, eu quiz dizer...

            A coruja voou até mim e abraçou-me: eu sei o que quizeste dizer.

- Mas é bom teres em mente que a vida é um rio a correr, disse o tio. O rio corre e nunca perde o que passou, mas ajunta com o que está vindo e o que depois virá.

- E assim aprendemos, continuou a coruja. Mas talvez este pensamento seja grande demais para ti, agora, menino Sérgio.

- Mas é bom lembrar que nada é para sempre e tudo é para sempre.

- Não forçe demais o menino, Pavel! Ele ainda tem muito que aprender.

Curioso como, naquele tempo, eu realmente não endendia do que falavam, mas hoje, vendo meus filhos, tenho a mesma tendência a falar com eles como o tio e a coruja falaram.

Percebo que nas palavras deles havia embutido um amor profundo por mim, mesmo eu sendo incapaz de entende-lo, na altura.

Deixamos a casa de de Borge já noite e minha mãe estava muito preocupada pelo horário em que chegara em casa. Ela nunca conheceu o tio Pavel, que foi sempre uma experiência minha.

Ela havia contatado meus amigos naquela noite em que tardei e eles lhe disseram que eu estava sempre com um homem estranhíssimo, coberto por um sobretudo marrom, apesar do calor, sempre carregando um guarda-chuva negro, apesar de nunca ter chovido naqueles dias. Um homem que nunca sorria, mas que, quando tentava faze-lo, fazia flores florirem nas nuvens.

            Quando cheguei em casa, ela quiz saber quem esse homem era e ficou muito difícil para mim explicá-lo. Como explicar alguém que nos leva ao céu? Que tem uma coruja imortal por primo? Mesmo hoje, eu não sei explicar o tio.

            Mas na preocupação de minha mãe naquela noite, eu comprendi que também ela me amava e como eu estava errado em meus sentimentos.

"Ecclesiastes" (Final) by Qoheleth (in English)

Chapter 11

1 Cast your bread upon the waters; after a long time you may find it again. 2 Make seven or eight portions; you know not what misfortune may come upon the earth. 3 When the clouds are full, they pour out rain upon the earth. Whether a tree falls to the south or to the north, wherever it falls, there shall it lie.

4 One who pays heed to the wind will not sow,

and one who watches the clouds will never reap.

5 Just as you know not how the breath of life fashions the human frame in the mother's womb, So you know not the work of God which he is accomplishing in the universe.

6 In the morning sow your seed,

and at evening let not your hand be idle:

For you know not which of the two will be successful, or whether both alike will turn out well.

7 Light is sweet! and it is pleasant for the eyes to see the sun. 8 However many years a man may live, let him, as he enjoys them all, remember that the days of darkness will be many. All that is to come is vanity.

9 Rejoice, O young man, while you are young

and let your heart be glad in the days of your youth.

Follow the ways of your heart, the vision of your eyes;

Yet understand that as regards all this God will bring you to judgment.

10 Ward off grief from your heart and put away trouble

from your presence, though the dawn of youth is fleeting.

Chapter 12

1 Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come And the years approach of which you will say, I have no pleasure in them; 2 Before the sun is darkened. and the light, and the moon, and the stars, while the clouds return after the rain;

3 When the guardians of the house tremble,

and the strong men are bent,

and the grinders are idle because they are few,

and they who look through the windows grow blind;

4 When the doors to the street are shut,

and the sound of the mill is low;

when one waits for the chirp of a bird,

but all the daughters of song are suppressed;

5 And one fears heights, and perils in the street;

when the almond tree blooms, and the locust

grows sluggish and the caper berry is without effect,

because man goes to his lasting home,

and mourners go about the streets;

6 Before the silver cord is snapped

and the golden bowl is broken,

and the pitcher is shattered at the spring,

and the broken pulley falls into the well,

7 and the dust returns to the earth as it once was, and the life breath returns to God who gave it.

8 Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth, all things are vanity!

9 Besides being wise, Qoheleth taught the people knowledge, and weighed, scrutinized and arranged many proverbs. 10 Qoheleth sought to find pleasing sayings, and to write down true sayings with precision.

11 The sayings of the wise are like goads; like fixed spikes are the topics given by one collector.

12 As to more than these, my son, beware. Of the making of many books there is no end, and in much study there is weariness for the flesh.

13 The last word, when all is heard: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is man's all; 14 because God will bring to judgment every work, with all its hidden qualities, whether good or bad.