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| City of Itabira, the Authors' hometown |
Poem: Carlos Drummond de Andrade | Translations: André Morais
I lived some time in Itabira, but specially I was born in Itabira.
That's why I'm sad and serious: like iron.
There is as much iron in the streets of Itabira as there is iron in the souls of people.
And there is the indifference of what in life is broke and meaningful.
The wish for love, that always gets me paralyzed, comes from Itabira
her white nights, without women and horizons.
And the tendency to suffer, which I find so funny, it's a sweet itabirian heritage.
From Itabira I brought gifts that now I put to you:
a stone of row iron that will become brazilian steal
a Saint Benedict from the saint-maker Alfredo Durval;
the pelt of a deer, put over the sofa in the visit room;
this pride and this low head.
I've had gold, I've had cattle, I've had farms.
Now, I'm just a public employee.
Itabira is just in the picture I keep in the office.
But, god, that hurts.
