Rússia e Coréia do Sul na POESIA

RÚSSIA
A CARTA (Marina Tsvetaeva)

Assim não se esperam cartas.
Assim se espera - a carta.
Pedaço de papel
Com uma borda
De cola. Dentro - uma palavra
Apenas. Isto é tudo.

Assim não se espera o bem.
Assim se espera - o fim:
Salva de soldados,
No peito - três quartos
De chumbo. Céu vermelho.
E só. Isto é tudo.

Felicidade? E a idade?
A flor - floriu.
Quadrado do pátio:
Bocas de fuzil.

(Quadrado da carta:
Tinta, tanto!)
Para o sono da morte
Viver é bastante.

Quadrado da carta.


Tradução: Augusto de Campos


***


CORÉIA DO SUL
What a fallen soldier says* (Mo, Yunsuk)

I chanced on a fallen soldier while wandering the hills and valleys
in a suburb south of Seoul. -

In a solitary mountain valley
I see a lone soldier lying,
wordless, motionless,
his eyes closed skyward.

In khaki uniform, badges sunlit on the shoulders,
he is the pride of the Republic, a second lieutenant.
Blood is still gushing out of his heart;
it smells more pungent than roses.
I lean over him to lament his youthful death
and listen to what he has last do say:

I have died young at five and twenty,
gone as a son of the Republic.
Fallen in a brave fight to defend my country
against the enemy invading like stormy clouds.

With my rifle, firm in hand,
shrapnel-proof helmet shielding my head,
I have never been a coward before the enemy,
Oh, no.

At the call of a greater inner voice in me
I dashed over the hills, vales, thorny bushes
and mounds of the dead.
Like Admiral Yi Sunsin, like Napoleon, like Caesar

I advanced day and night to save the nation
from disaster.
I fought to put the enemy to rout.
I wanted to march farther than the sky-limit.
I wanted to sweep them off as if in a storm.

Mother and father I have, and dear brothers, too.
And a sweet girl I love.
A budding youth of this land,
I wished to share my flowering life with those I love.
I wished to grow singing with those birds on the wing.
And I fought bravely and died.
No one knows of my death.
O my country, my love!
How the gentle wind caresses me to dry
the sweat on my brow, on my lifeless brow!
How those stars comfort my soul at night!

Dressed in the uniform of the fatherland,
I shall lie down on the grass of the vale,
setting my tired body in peace.
I shall breathe the air that fills the sky.
I fought with pride for the country dear as my mother
and died an honorable death for the nation.
Fallen dead in this obscure valley,
I shall keep eternal company with those nightingales
that weep in the dew-laden grass at night.

O wind! You nameless birds!
When you meet my poor countrymen,
give this word of mine that I ask them
to weep not for me but for the fatherland.
Birds winging freely from the spring land,
when you meet my beloved girl by any chance
at a windowside while you fly,
go and tell her to weep not over my death
bur for the glory of the Republic.
O my country, my countrymen, my sweet girl.

I go now for your happiness, leaving you
with my wish unfulfilled.
Defeat the enemy once and for all
and comfort my spirit and make up for my lost youth.
Turning back is shame worse than surrender or slavery.
Let others step out if they will.

But our Republican army,
you must fight it out till victory is won
and die in glory for this nation to prosper.
Once lost, the fatherland shall not be regained.
Look, O my country, how the storm arises!

Packs of wolves and lions charge down the hills and vales.
Will you dismiss this sorrow as mere sting of destiny?
No. It cannot be our destiny. Or let it be so,
for we are mightier than destiny. We really are.
Friends, destroy it, another enemy, with your brawny arms
with blood and soul handed down to us by our ancestors.

Fight when you must;
die when you must
to save the nation on the brink of perdition.
And let my wishes be known: Be it for the good
of the nation,
I'd gladly refuse to be put into the simplest coffin,
to lie buried in the grave.
Let the wild wind flail my frame;
let maggots feast on my flesh.
I shall be a handful of dust in the vale of my country.

In a solitary mountain valley
I see a lone soldier lying.
wordless, motionless,
his eyes closed skyward.

In khaki uniform, badges sunlit on the shoulders,
he is the pride of the Republic, a second lieutenant.

Blood is still gushing out of his heart;
it smells more pungent than roses.
I lean over him to lament his youthful death
and listen to what he has last do say.



* Based on the poet's experience during the Korean War.

Tradução: Jaihiun J. Kim