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| José Luís Tavares | ||||||||||||||||
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| The woman rides the ox through the morning abyss. What languor and tender delight in the austere vigilant brow, though there are gods deposited there her bushel of insults. Humble and black, there go he and she, and the shadow that belongs to them both. Tell me, António, if it is the ox of patience or bulimundo on the way to marriage. Tell me what torpor or shadow of his can be guessed in the iris of the woman, or in the temple of the nuptial bovine. Tell me, you, whose eyes know the prodigy that is not repeated, still having contemplated it one day transformed you, like the wife of lot, into a dumbstruck statue in the wasteland where the first scrape of the cold set our heart in suffering. Pray for them, so that for them the sky darkening at each rotation may be light, while above resound bells as they pass the red-hot corner of dusk. from Paraíso apagado por um trovão [Paradise erased by a thunderbolt] |
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| b. 1967 Cabo Verde | ||||||||||||||||
| © Instituto Camões, 2007 | ||||||||||||||||