Natasha Trethewey – Blues do Cemitério

Choveu o tempo todo enquanto a deitávamos no chão;
Choveu da igreja ao túmulo quando a enterramos no chão.
A sucção da lama em nossos pés: uma murmuração.

Quando o pregador conclamou, eu levantei a minha mão;
Quando ele pediu uma testemunha, ergui a minha mão —
A morte detém a lida do corpo, a alma do artesão.

O sol apareceu quando me virei para ir embora,
Brilhou forte sobre mim quando eu me virei e fui embora —
De costas, e deixando minha mãe onde ela está agora.

A estrada de volta pra casa era toda esburacada,
Aquela estrada de volta está sempre esburacada;
Desacelerei, mas gira a roda do tempo sem parada.

Ando agora entre os nomes dos mortos: o nome de minha
Mãe, travesseiro de pedra onde minha cabeça se aninha.

Trad.: Nelson Santander

Graveyard Blues

It rained the whole time we were laying her down;
Rained from church to grave when we put her down.
The suck of mud at our feet was a hollow sound.

When the preacher called out I held up my hand;
When he called for a witness I raised my hand—
Death stops the body’s work, the soul’s a journeyman.

The sun came out when I turned to walk away,
Glared down on me as I turned and walked away—
My back to my mother, leaving her where she lay.

The road going home was pocked with holes,
That home-going road’s always full of holes;
Though we slow down, time’s wheel still rolls.

I wander now among names of the dead:
My mother’s name, stone pillow for my head.

Trad.: Nelson Santander

Graveyard Blues

It rained the whole time we were laying her down;
Rained from church to grave when we put her down.
The suck of mud at our feet was a hollow sound.

When the preacher called out I held up my hand;
When he called for a witness I raised my hand—
Death stops the body’s work, the soul’s a journeyman.

The sun came out when I turned to walk away,
Glared down on me as I turned and walked away—
My back to my mother, leaving her where she lay.

The road going home was pocked with holes,
That home-going road’s always full of holes;
Though we slow down, time’s wheel still rolls.

I wander now among names of the dead:
My mother’s name, stone pillow for my head.