OS ÚLTIMOS DIAS DE VERÃO

PORTUGAL

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If only, Portugal, you were just three syllables,
a beautiful view of the sea,
the green Minho, the whitewashed Algarve,
a tiny, tranquil donkey
foraging on the mountain ridge,
a mill swinging its arms at a wind as stubborn
as a bull but with padded horns and after all friendly,
if only you were just salt, sun, the south,
the shrewd sparrow,
the meek colloquial ox,
the sizzling sardine,
the waddling fishwife,
the scribbler bundled up in pretty adjectives,
the silent, almondish complaint
of sharp eyes with black lashes,
if only you were just the buzzing of summer, the buzz of fashion,
the decrepit asthmatic dog of beaches,
the caged cricket, the cagey customer,
the calendar on the wall, the pin on a lapel,
if only, Portugal, you were just three syllables
made of plastic, which would be cheaper!

*

Confectioners of Amarante, potters from Barcelos,
lace-makers of Viana, bullfighters from Golegã,
your celebrated sweets don’t tickle my fancy,
no clay cock sings in colour on my shelf,
no lacy whiteness trims my daydreams,
and no banderilla adorns my neck.

Portugal: an ongoing discussion with myself,
a soreness to the bone, an unsated hunger,
a bloodhound on a leash, with no nose and no ducks,
a spruced-up nag,
a dingy fair,
my regret,
my regret for us all…

Alexandre O’Neill

Translated by Richard Zenith