envoltas em capas e capuzes,
carregam barras de ferros e velas
uma multiplicidade de cicatrizes recoletadas
entre acres de grama prematura
e coletivos urbanos, e templos e bares. Há meninas
saindo do bosque,
com calcinhas amordaçando seus lábios,
fazendo tanto barulho, é impossível
ouvi-las. O mundo está falando muito?
Está realmente perguntando o que significa exatamente
permitir a alguém descansar em paz? Há meninas
saindo do bosque, levantando muito alto
suas pernas quebradas, segredos vazando
destas coxas soltas, todas as mentiras
sussurradas por estranhos e treinadores
de natação, e tios, especialmente tios,
que disseram que espalhar os restos seria fácil
e simples, que puseram balas em seus peitos
e alimentaram com seus preciosos rostos o fogo,
que limparam o barro de suas costelas e decoraram
seus caixões com espinhos. Há meninas
saindo do bosque, pavimentando o terreno
para espalhar suas histórias. Mesmo aquelas meninas
encontradas nuas em valas e poços,
essas esquecidas em sótãos abandonados,
e enterradas nos leitos dos rios como os sedimentos
de séculos passados. Elas escaparam
e arrastam seus corpos de detrás das cortinas
de sua infância, do peso dourado e rosa
de seus corpos empurrados contra a água,
contra o ultraje triste e repleto de plumas
da recordação. Há meninas saindo
do bosque do mesmo modo que os pássaros chegam
nas janela de manhã - bicando
e cantarolando até que todo que você pode ouvir
é o golpe de seus corações minúsculos
contra o vidro, o desespero brilhante
do som - golpeando, desaparecendo.
Há meninas saindo do bosque.
Estão chegando. Estão chegando.
Girls are coming out of the Woods
Girls are coming out of the woods,
wrapped in cloaks and hoods,
carrying iron bars and candles
and a multitude of scars, collected
on acres of premature grass and city
buses, in temples and bars. Girls
are coming out of the woods
with panties tied around their lips,
making such a noise, it’s impossible
to hear. Is the world speaking too?
Is it really asking, What does it mean
to give someone a proper resting? Girls are
coming out of the woods, lifting
their broken legs high, leaking secrets
from unfastened thighs, all the lies
whispered by strangers and swimming
coaches, and uncles, especially uncles,
who said spreading would be light
and easy, who put bullets in their chests
and fed their pretty faces to fire,
who sucked the mud clean
off their ribs, and decorated
their coffins with brier. Girls are coming
out of the woods, clearing the ground
to scatter their stories. Even those girls
found naked in ditches and wells,
those forgotten in neglected attics,
and buried in river beds like sediments
from a different century. They’ve crawled
their way out from behind curtains
of childhood, the silver-pink weight
of their bodies pushing against water,
against the sad, feathered tarnish
of remembrance. Girls are coming out
of the woods the way birds arrive
at morning windows – pecking
and humming, until all you can hear
is the smash of their miniscule hearts
against glass, the bright desperation
of sound – bashing, disappearing.
Girls are coming out of the woods.
They’re coming. They’re coming.
wrapped in cloaks and hoods,
carrying iron bars and candles
and a multitude of scars, collected
on acres of premature grass and city
buses, in temples and bars. Girls
are coming out of the woods
with panties tied around their lips,
making such a noise, it’s impossible
to hear. Is the world speaking too?
Is it really asking, What does it mean
to give someone a proper resting? Girls are
coming out of the woods, lifting
their broken legs high, leaking secrets
from unfastened thighs, all the lies
whispered by strangers and swimming
coaches, and uncles, especially uncles,
who said spreading would be light
and easy, who put bullets in their chests
and fed their pretty faces to fire,
who sucked the mud clean
off their ribs, and decorated
their coffins with brier. Girls are coming
out of the woods, clearing the ground
to scatter their stories. Even those girls
found naked in ditches and wells,
those forgotten in neglected attics,
and buried in river beds like sediments
from a different century. They’ve crawled
their way out from behind curtains
of childhood, the silver-pink weight
of their bodies pushing against water,
against the sad, feathered tarnish
of remembrance. Girls are coming out
of the woods the way birds arrive
at morning windows – pecking
and humming, until all you can hear
is the smash of their miniscule hearts
against glass, the bright desperation
of sound – bashing, disappearing.
Girls are coming out of the woods.
They’re coming. They’re coming.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário