Poem: Carlos Drummond de Andrade | Translation: André Morais
What now, Joe? The party is over, the lights are out, the people are gone, the night got cold.. what now, Joe?
What about you? You that have no name; you who mock others; you who do poetry; you that protest... What now, Joe? What now, Joe?
You are without woman; you are without speech; you are without love. Can't drink any longer, you can't smoke any more, you can not even spit.
The night got could and the day isn't coming, the train isn't coming, the smile isn't coming, the american dream isn't coming... And everything's over, and everything's gone, and everything's ruined. What now, Joe? What now, Joe?
Your beautiful words; your motives to get angry; the things that make you hungry; those books, that italian suit, your money, your nonsense and even your hatred - What now?
With the keys in hand, you want to open the door: there ain't no door. You want to die in the sea: the sea has dried;
You want to go to the farmland: but they've sold that place. And what now, Joe?
If you even cried, if you hurt, if you went on to dance the Tango in Havana, if you just went to sleep, if you got tired, if you dropped dead... But you don't die, Joe, you are to hard.
Alone in the house, like a beast in the wild, without god, without a confy bed to rest, without a black horse that could take you away.. you walk, Joe. But Joe? Where would you go?
