The Pharaoh’s Gold

Who hasn’t been a slave at times,

bowing to love’s imperious decrees?

Who hasn’t served on bended knees,

chained lightly by a bond sublime,

enthralled by his own captivity?

The pharoah, love, says choose but one—

a life of gold servility,

or a lifeless wandering, held by none.

O Ouro do Faraó

Quem não se tornou escravo um dia,

curvando-se aos caprichos imperiosos do amor?

Quem já não serviu de joelhos,

sutilmente acorrentado por elo sublime,

subjugado em sua própria servidão?

O amor faraó decreta: elege uma só alternativa —

uma vida de magnífico servilismo

ou a peregrinação vazia, e por ninguém presidida.

Epic

Restless as the sand they’re made of,
our reckless bodies hurl wonderfully
together, epic loves, afraid of nothing—
not salt, not blood, not sun,
not the waves marching thunderfully
to sack the small castle we become.

Épico

Incansáveis como a areia de que somos feitos,

nossos corpos temerários precipitam-se

admiravelmente juntos, amores épicos,

sem medo de nada — de sol, de sal ou de sangue,

esquecidos das ondas avançando ribombantes

para pilhar o frágil castelo que nos tornamos.

Green

Everything seems to give fruit here, nothing holds back
its mystery from the shifting greens and pea-black shadows.
No flesh is ever shy in its ripening. Even
the plucked jade plantain, drooping in indolence,
will glory in a raucous goldening until its skin
splits, helpless to contain such muscular succulence.

Verde

Aqui nenhuma natureza nega fruto, e saca seus mistérios desde verdes inconstantes e sombras untuosas.

Toda carne brada o seu despertar.

Mesmo a ousada bananeira cor de jade,

se esparramando em indolências, gloria-se

roucamente em ouros enquanto rasga a pele,

incapaz de reter tanto substância muscular.

What Goes Around

Plato told that we’re like eggs cut in two
looking for the half that will complete us.

Lao Tsu knew every me has its you—
and when we mix, nothing can defeat us.

Every up contains its down, every yin
its yang, every stillness its unseen trouble.

And so I’m of two minds: do I lose, or do I win,
do I give you, or gather all the marbles?

Winner Take All

A fistful of marbles, glinting in the sun.
The shooter takes aim. Soon there will be none.

The cat’s eye glances, picks off another one.
The rest all scatter. Soon there will be none.

The hard eye holds what it knows will be undone.
The small hands empty. Soon there will be none.