They dip their wings in the sunset, They dash against the air As if to break themselves upon its stillness: In every movement, too swift to count, Is a revelry of indecision, A furtive delight in trees they do not desire And in grasses that shall not know their weight.
They hover and lean toward the meadow With little edged cries; And then, As if frightened at the earth’s nearness, They seek the high austerity of evening sky And swirl into its depth.
Os sinos da munhuana estão velhos
Tocam nas rugosas horas da esperança murcha
O cansaço das lembranças estampadas nas casas de madeira e zinco
E no chão cimentado por pântanos
As rãs fazem ajuste de contas com a dor das vozes sem voz