Carlos Drummond Andrade

CARLOS DRUMMOND ANDRADE

Travelling In The Family

In the desert of Itabira The shadow of my father Took me by the hand So much time lost But he didn’t say a thing It was neither day or night. A sigh? A passing bird? But he didn’t say a thing. We have come a long way. Here there was a house. The mountains used to be bigger. So many heaped up dead, And time gnawing dead. And in the ruined houses Cold disdain and damp. But he didn’t say anything. The street he used to cross On horseback, at a gallop His watch, his clothes. His legal documents. His tales of love-affairs. Opening up of his trunks And violent memories. But he didn’t say anything. In the desert of Itabira Things come back to life, Stiflingly, suddenly The market of desires Displays its sad treasures, My urge to runaway; Naked women; remorse. But he didn’t say anything.

Stepping on books and letters We travel in the family. Marriages; mortgages, The consumptive cousines, The mad aunt; my grandmother Betrayed among the slavegirls Rustling silk in the bedrooms But he didn’t say anything. What cruel, obscure instinct Moved his pallid hand Subtly pushing us Into the forebidden Time, forebidden places? I looked into his white eyes. I cried to him: Speak! My voice Shook in the air a moment, Beat on the stones. The shadow Proceeded slowly on With that pathetic traveling Across the lost kingdom But he didn’t say anything. I saw grief, misunderstanding And more than one old revolt Dividing us in the dark. The hand I wouldn’t kiss, The crumb that they denied me, Refusal to ask pardon. Pride, terror at night. But he didn’t say anything. Speak speak speak speak I pulled him by his coat That was turning into clay. By the hands, by the boots I caught at his strict shadow And the shadow released itself With neither haste nor anger. But he remained silent.

There were distinct silences Deep within his silence. There was my dead grandfather Hearing the painted birds On the ceiling of the churches, My own lack of friends, And your lack of kisses There were our difficult lives And a great separation In the little space of the room. The narrow space of life Crowds me up against you And in this ghostly embrace It’s as if I were being buried Completely with poignant love. Only now we know each other! Eye-glasses, memories, portraits Flow in the river of blood. Now the waters won’t let me Make out your distant face, Distant by seventy years. I felt that he pardoned me But he didn’t say anything. The waters cover the moustache, The family, Itabira all. *