ABRUPTO

11:04 (JPP)

EARLY MORNING BLOGS / SONGS 58

Hoje abrimos o dia com a essência da manhã, a mudança. Um belo poema de Robert Frost (enviado pelo Francisco Curate) sobre a “hardest hue to hold”:

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Depois, ficamos com a “Voz”, (cortesia de José Manuel de Figueiredo), que, mais do que da manhã, fala da madrugada. E, como sempre, a finura da madrugada, dos seus estádios de sombra e luz nascente, está descrita com o rigor das palavras antigas:

“Matutinum est inter abscessum tenebrarum et aurorae adventum; et dictum matutinum quod hoc tempus inchoante mane sit. Diluculum quasi iam incipiens parva diei lux. Haec et aurora, quae solem praecedit.”

Eis a “Voz”, Frank Sinatra:

In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning

"When the sun is high
In the afternoon sky
You can always find something to do
But from dusk til dawn
As the clock ticks on
Something happens to you

In the wee small hours of the morning
While the whole wide world is fast asleep
You lie awake and think about the girl
And never even think of counting sheep

When your lonely heart has learned its lesson
You'd be hers if only she would call
In the wee small hours of the morning
That's the time you miss her most of all

When your lonely heart has learned its lesson
You'd be hers if only she would call
In the wee small hours of the morning
That's the time you miss her most of all"

E, por fim, os "U2 numa belíssima canção do álbum Unforgettable Fire (…) uma manhã... num meio hostil, a neve, uma luz ao fundo” (enviado por Filipe Freitas), mostram como se pode regressar, uma "espécie" de regressar.

A Sort of Homecoming

"And you know it's time to go
Through the sleet and driving snow
Across the fields of mourning
Light in the distance

And you hunger for the time
Time to heal, desire, time
And your earth moves beneath
Your own dream landscape

Oh, oh, oh...
On borderland we run...

I'll be there
I'll be there...
Tonight
A high road
A high road out from here

The city walls are all come down
The dust, a smoke screen all around
See faces ploughed like fields that once
Gave no resistance

And we live by the side of the road
On the side of a hill
As the valley explode
Dislocated, suffocated
The land grows weary of its own

Oh, oh, oh...on borderland we run...
And still we run
We run and don't look back
I'll be there
I'll be there
Tonight
Tonight

I'll be there tonight...I believe
I'll be there...somehow
I'll be there...tonight
Tonight

The wind will crack in winter time
This bomb-blast lightning waltz
No spoken words, just a scream...

Tonight we'll build a bridge
Across the sea and land
See the sky, the burning rain
She will die and live again
Tonight

And your heart beats so slow
Through the rain and fallen snow
Across the fields of mourning
Light's in the distance

Oh don't sorrow, no don't weep
For tonight, at last
I am coming home
I am coming home"

“I am coming home”; bom dia.

Nota: leitores do Abrupto pedem-me que traduza alguns dos textos, em particular os em latim. Mais tarde, tenho a intenção de traduzir (se o meu latim bastar; se não, uso uma tradução já feita) e comentar, em conjunto, todo este texto perfeito de Isidoro, “Hispalensis Episcopi”, sobre as partes da noite, retirado do quinto livro “De Legibus Et Temporibus” do Etymologiarum . Mas, até lá, o som magnifico das línguas antigas, a sua perfeição formal, a sua contenção, que no latim é intraduzível, perdia-se, distraía-se, com a tradução.