Moist taste of earth,
scent of washed rock,
- time uncertain of time! -
shadow of the mountain's skirt,
bare and cold, with nothing else.
Glow of stamped sands,
flavour of bitten leaves,
- lip of a voice without venture! -
sigh of dawns with
things that never happened.
The night spread the freshness
of the fields all wet,
- alone, with your perfume! -
arranging the purest flower
with air on all sides.
So life was indeed quiet.
But the thought passed by...
- where did that music come from?
And it was a teeming cloud
among the stars and the wind.Original poem: 'Noite', by Cecília Meireles
In: 'Viagem', 1939