I
sixteen degrees on Paulista
I had the verse so well structured this morning
and drive in the flow of traffic
never has there been a more lovely place
nor a more loyal citizen
II
you are called a concrete jungle a city of steel
all exaggeration
I borrow
migrant glances birds of passage
I stare at the wind gathering piles
of autumn leaves in the gutter
the sky was dazzling
the diadem of the Empress
the woman I never had
III
I could return with my estranged vision
that know how to strip your topographies
the supreme bittersweet
luxury:
no one would say that you are
“a nest of pelicans”
around here
there are no cliff-edges
even though
for free
bromeliads adorn your
trees
IV
Highland climate said Vera
the moment exuded inspiration
barely anyone connects it
and your
once pristine rivers
transformed into
sewers
—who would deny it?
you demand a trained eye
constantly
re-training itself
that restores the matter
beyond the leathery hide of your body
V
I could return
supreme luxury
Koh-i-Noor of the non-existent
only intuited crown
to suffer the necessary
epiphanies
foyer city
foyer for something that’s not lyrical
yet lyrical
pre-
semi-
para-
meta-
post-
fore-
after-
VI
I knew it already
I’ve known it thirty years
time hasn’t passed
the same strolling about as always
when I am not near
or inside you
I exile myself and it hurts
—who would understand?
those capable of extracting beauty
from the dust gathered
on barbed wire?
VII
Good night street-corner professor
Sweet ladies
oh flowers of England good night
a Uruguayan was in the sauna recently
or Paraguayan a guy from Ceará an Italian
with a thick penis like Michelangelo’s
a Korean worker’s
all yours
virile city
or virago lover
a succulent virago
you put on a show with
your dense bodies
that educate the eyes
and satisfy
VIII
I saw the Paraguayan go astray in the night
lose himself in your
magnificent maquette
and confessed to myself the bittersweet word
—what impressions will remain of his plimsolls
on the rough edge of the curb
particles of neglect
that chafing for eight hundred yards
toward the metro
soon day will break
the forecast is cloudy
like a stab
IX
sixteen degrees on Avenida Paulista
corner follows corner
Peixoto Gomide
Rocha Azevedo
Joaquim Eugênio de Lima
Frei Caneca
Augusta
councillors of the Empire
the Uruguayan town planner
the autonomist man of the cloth
the street that refers to Lisbon
and your apostolic name crossing them all:
under the sign of Saul
you announce our road to Damascus
and will take his name to all corners
that is your vertigo
highland climate
that is your
mission
even the bromeliads and epiphytes
agree
and intone your
hymn
X
ceaselessly
here it doesn’t matter if night
or broad daylight
some anonymous Caravaggio
paints in chiaroscuro
Avenida Paulista
is your road to Damascus
in the Americas
you will prevail
—the dead leaves
will be cleared away tomorrow
before the rotors of your helicopters
dispel them
I’ll go with them to the nothing never
I’ll abandon you
as I do now
XI
eleven moments of walking revived
I flick through you in three minutes
cubes
cubes
cubes
leaves that scatter
yes I’m going with them
toward my interior
sanctuary
in chiaroscuro illuminating myself
unwinding what there is
the now
the now is what there is
the where is the now
under your
hooves
São Paulo, 17-19. VII.05
© Horácio Costa. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 Stefan Tobler. All rights reserved.
