X THE FLOWER AND THE NAUSEA - CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE X ENG VER

Attached to my class and a few clothes,
I walk in white down the gray street. Melancholy, merchandise stalks me. Should I go on until I get sick?
Can I rebel without weapons?
Dirty eyes on the clock tower:
No,
the time of complete justice has not arrived.
The time is still of feces,
bad poems,
hallucinations and waiting.
Poor time,
the poor poet merge into the same impasse.
In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf.
Under the skin of words there are ciphers and codes.
The sun consoles the sick and does not renew them.
The Things.
How sad are the things , considered without emphasis.
Vomiting this boredom over the city...!!!
Forty years and no problem solved, not even raised.
No letter written or received.
All men return home.
They are less free but they carry newspapers
and spell out the world, knowing that they are losing it.
Crimes of the earth, how can I forgive them?
I took part in many, others I hid.
Some I found beautiful...
they were published.
Soft crimes, ...
that help us live.
Daily ration of error,
distributed at home.
The fierce bakers of evil....
The fierce milkmen of evil....
Setting everything on fire, including myself.
They called the boy
of 1918
an anarchist.
But my hatred is the best part of me....
With it I save myself...
and I give to few....
a tiny hope...
!
A flower has blossomed in the street!
Pass by from afar...
trams...
buses...
the steel river of traffic.
A still faded flower!
eludes the police...
breaks through the asphalt.
Be completely silent...
stop business!
...
I assure you that a flower has been born.
Its color is not noticeable.
Its petals do not open.
Its name is not in the books.
I assure you that it has been born!...
It is ugly....
But it is really a flower!
I sit on the ground in the capital of the country at five o'clock in the afternoon
and slowly
run my hand over its insecure shape.
On the side of the mountains,
massive clouds swell.
Small white dots move in the sea, chickens in panic.
It is ugly....
But it is a flower....
It has pierced the asphalt...,
boredom...,
disgust...
and hatred!
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