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| A Burial at Ornans, painting by Gustave Courbet |
de W.H. Auden
Parem os relógios, ponham os telefones em silêncio,
Para que o cão não ladre, joguem-lhe um osso suculento,
Calem os pianos e ao rufar de tambores abafados
Tragam o caixão, que já é chegado o momento.
Deixem os aviões circularem no céu
E que escrevam a mensagem "Ele morreu".
Laços de crepe branco no pescoço de pombas em luto,
E que os guardas usem suas luvas negras de veludo.
Ele era o meu Norte, o meu Sul, meu Leste e Oeste,
Meus dias úteis, fins-de-semana, guia e mestre,
Meu meio-dia, meia-noite, minha conversa e canção;
Pensei que o amor durasse para sempre, mas não.
Estrelas não as quero mais; podem apagá-las,
Que o sol seja desmontado, a lua podem guardá-la
Despeje o oceano e varram longe a floresta;
Pois nada mais vale a pena do que resta.
Funeal Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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