MEIRELES, Cecilia

The Gates of Midnight

The angels come to open the gates of midnight,

at the very moment when sleep is deepest

and silence most pervasive.

The gates wheel open and unexpectedly we sigh.

The angels come with their music,

their tunics billowing with celestial breezes,

and they sin in their fluid incomprehensible tongue.

Then the trees burst forth with blossoms and fruit,

the moon and the sun intertwine their beams,

the rainbow unwinds its ribbons

and all the animals appear,

mingled with the stars.

The angels come to open the gates of midnight.

And we understand that there is no more time,

that this is the last vision,

that our hands are already lifted for goodbyes,

that our feet at last are freed form the earth,

freed for that flight, announced and dreamed

since the beginning of births.

The angels extend us their divine invitations.

And we dream that we are no longer dreaming.

The Roosters will crow

The roosters will crow when we die,

And a soft breeze, with delicate hands,

Will touch the fringes, the silken

Shrouds.

And the sleep of night will cloud

The clear windows.

And the crickets, far off, will saw silences:

Stalks of crystal, cold long solitudes,

And the enormous perfume of trees.

Ah, what sweet moon will look upon our calm face,

Even yet more calm than her great mirror

Of silver.

What thick freshness upon our hair,

As free as the fields at sunrise.

From the mist of dawn,

One last star

Will ascend: pale.

What immense peace, without human voice,

Without the lip of wolfish faces,

Without hatred, without love, without anything!

Like dark lost prophets,

Only the dogs will talk through the valleys.

Strong questions. Vast pauses.

We shall lie in death

In that soft contour

Of a shell in the water.


Motive

I sing because the moment exists

And my life is complete.

I am not gay, I am not sad:

I am a poet.

Brother of fugitive things,

I feel no delight or torment.

I cross nights and days

In the wind.

Whether I destroy or build,

Whether I persist or disperse,

— I don´t know, I don´t know.

I don´t know if I stay or go.

I know that I sing.

The song is everything.

The rhythmic wing has eternal blood,

And I know that one day I shall be dumb:

— Nothing more.

Introduction

Here is my life:

This sand so clear

With drawing that walk

Dedicated to the wind…

Here is my voice:

This empty shell

The shadow of a sound

Preserving its own lament…

Here is my grief:

This broken coral

Surviving its pathetic moment…

Here is my heritage:

This solitary sea —

On one side it was love

And on the other forgetfulness.

Portrait

I did not have this face of today

So calm

So sad

So thin.

Nor these eyes so empty

Nor this bitter mouth.

I did not have these strenghtless hands

So still

And cold

And dead.

I did not realize this change

So simple

So certain

So easy.

In what mirror did I lose my face?