Nagonsko me pritegne Luis de Camőes,
ki je nekje drugje, da se vprašam: Kaj je Canto devet?
Vse tiste osamljene ženske, nadišavljene in poskočne, čakajoče
na mornarje, ki se vračajo iz napol neznanega sveta?
Zakaj pravljični bordel, kot so tisti, ki jih obetajo apokrifne sastre,
polne najstnic z razčesanimi lasmi in pronicljivimi očmi,
katerih nedolžnost je zanesljivo obnovljiva s popito tableto naslednje jutro?
Zakaj oglaševanje? Upam, da to ni Tristan da Cunha,
otok prababičinega rojstva! Stal sem
med sarkofagom Vasca da Game in tvojim, narodni poet,
v Mosterio dos Jerónimos, poslušal recital tvojega epa,
in sedel sem na klopi v tvoji praça, zroč v tvojo velikansko silhueto,
tvoje roke čvrsto ob telesu, upirajoč se vojaškemu pozdravu,
glava pripeta na bronast lovorov venec,
in sanjal sem o tem, kako bom obiskal tiste padrăos, posejane po afriški obali,
tiste nagrobnike, ki so zaznamovali tvojo deportacijo na Vzhod,
ne da bi se vprašal o motivih tragičnega storilca.
A pri Canto devet sem spet pozoren bralec,
zmeden, poln dvomov, iščoč podporo Avtorja,
medtem ko listam nazaj in naprej skoz mehko vezano knjigo,
in molim, da se ne bi vsa zgodovina končala v škrlatni meglici pornografije.
iz angleščine prevedel Janko Lozar
Impulsively I want to turn to Luis de Camões,
who is elsewhere, and ask: What’s Canto Nine?
All those lonely young women, perfumed and frisky, awaiting
the mariners returning from a world half-known?
Why a dreamy brothel like those promised in the apocryphal sastras,
full of teens with teased-out hair and spy-tv eyes,
whose virginities can be reliably renewed by a pill swollowed the morning after?
Why the advertising? I hope it’s not Tristan da Cunha,
the isle of my great-grandmother’s birth! I have stood
between Vasco da Gama’s sarcophagus and yours, National Poet,
in Mosteiro dos Jerónimos, hearing your epic recited,
and I’ve sat on a bench in your praça staring up at your gargantuan silhouette,
your arms down resisting a salute, head clamped under a bronze laurel wreath,
and I have also dreamed of visiting those padrãos that dot the African coast,
those gravestones that marked your transportation to The East,
not wanting to question the motivations of a tragic actor.
But with Canto Nine I am again a tentative student,
confused, self-doubting, seeking the nod of The Author
as I page back and forth through the paperback,
praying that not all history must end in the purple-haze of porn.