GAME OF CHANCE / LEAD PEBBLES

A GAME OF CHANCE – Translated May 17, 21

What can I say...? Now times are past

when what happened was no fruit of gold,

though all that happened was neither cold

but only sight to sight was ever set fast?

What can I tell...? When everything abreast,

everything so close and I never was so bold,

of all I wanted to say, nothing was told,

nothing of all which within my heart last.

Not even once I took her within my arms,

nor asked her lips upon mine’s eager place

and time finally came to see her last charms,

and yet nothing could I tell for all I knew,

that when I clasped her in a last embrace

all that I wanted was I would never see go!...

SEE BELOW MY PORTUGUESE-WRITTEN

ORIGINAL I TRANSLATED THE ABOVE FROM,

VÍSPORA

O que posso dizer...? Tempos passados,

quando o que foi não foi um fruto de ouro,

embora tudo se passasse sem desdouro,

sendo apenas os olhares vinculados...?

O que posso falar...? Dessa ocasião,

em que tudo estava perto e nada fiz:

nada lhe disse de tudo quanto quis,

nem de quanto me partia o coração.

Nem um momento nos braços a tomei,

nem lhe pedi seus lábios sobre os meus

e, enfim, chegou a derradeira hora.

E mal pude falar, porém só sei

que quando eu a abracei, por dar-lhe adeus,

eu só queria que nunca fosse embora...

LEAD PEBBLES – Translated May 18, 2021

Pebbles roll down the bluff into the bank,

taken away by the strength of the stream

often shocking against each other’s brim

like in a liquid batter at the loudest clank.

Each child rolls out complete and frank

from mother’s womb into a naive dream,

but when involved with other children seem

having their edges broken down their rank.

For all their being protected at home

and believing the world to be their own,

out of that illusion are broken rather soon,

as all of us are rocking pebbles life along,

so many crashes leading to our common doom:

every hope into disillusionment slowly shown.

AS BEFORE MY ORIGINAL SONNET

WRITTEN IN PORTUGUESE,

SEIXOS DE CHUMBO

Os seixos rolam pela ribanceira,

são levados pela força da corrente,

uns contra os outros batem bem frequente,

nessa liquida e pura cremalheira.

Cada criança rola, por inteira,

do ventre de sua mãe, inexperiente,

mas tão logo se mistura a outra gente

suas arestas vão quebrando na ribeira.

Por mais que seja em casa protegida

e até acredite ser do mundo a dona,

não demora a perder tal ilusão...

Pois somos seixos, através da vida

e aos entrechoques, aos poucos, se abandona

toda esperança, tal qual desilusão!...