A Flor e a Náusea

　　CarlosDrummond de Andrade

　　Presoà minha classe e a algumas roupas,

　　voude branco pela rua cinzenta.

　　Melancolias,mercadorias, espreitam-me.

　　Devoseguir até o enj?o?

　　Posso,sem armas, revoltar-me?

　　Olhossujos no relógio da torre:

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　　N?o,o tempo n?o chegou de completa justi?a.

　　Otempo é ainda de fezes, maus poemas, alucinaes e espera.

　　Otempo pobre, o poeta pobre

　　fundem-seno mesmo impasse.

　　Emv?o me tento explicar, os muros s?o surdos.

　　Soba pele das palavras há cifras e códigos.

　　Osol consola os doentes e n?o os renova.

　　Ascoisas. Que tristes s?o as coisas, consideradas sem ênfase.

　　Vomitareste tédio sobre a cidade.

　　Quarentaanos e nenhum problema

　　resolvido,sequer colocado.

　　Nenhumacarta escrita nem recebida.

　　Todosos homens voltam para casa.

　　Est?omenos livres mas levam jornais

　　esoletram o mundo, sabendo que o perdem.

　　Crimesda terra, como perdoá-los?

　　Tomeiparte em muitos, outros escondi.

　　Algunsachei belos, foram publicados.

　　Crimessuaves, que ajudam a viver.

　　Raodiária de erro, distribuída em casa.

　　Osferozes padeiros do mal.

　　Osferozes leiteiros do mal.

　　P?rfogo em tudo, inclusive em mim.

　　Aomenino de 1918 chamavam anarquista.

　　Porémmeu ódio é o melhor de mim.

　　Comele me salvo

　　edou a poucos uma esperan?a mínima.

　　Umaflor nasceu na rua!

　　Passemde longe, bondes, ?nibus, rio de a?o do tráfego.

　　Umaflor ainda desbotada

　　iludea polícia, rompe o asfalto.

　　Fa?amcompleto silêncio, paralisem os negócios,

　　garantoque uma flor nasceu.

　　Suacor n?o se percebe.

　　Suaspétalas n?o se abrem.

　　Seunome n?o está nos livros.

　　éfeia. Mas é realmente uma flor.

　　Sento-meno ch?o da capital do país às cinco horas da tarde

　　elentamente passo a m?o nessa forma insegura.

　　Dolado das montanhas, nuvens maci?as avolumam-se.

　　Pequenospontos brancos movem-se no mar, galinhas em panico.

　　éfeia. Mas é uma flor. Furou o asfalto, o tédio, o nojo e o ódio.

　　Nausea and the Flower

　　CarlosDrummond de Andrade

　　Boundby my class and some clothes,

　　Iwalked down the gray street in white.

　　Dejectionsand goods for sale observe me.

　　ShouldI keep on until I’m nauseous?

　　CanI, without weapons, rebel?

　　Grimyeyes in the clock tower:

　　No,the time of full justice has not arrived.

　　It’sstill a time of feces, bad poems, hallucinations, and waiting.

　　Thehapless time and the hapless poet

　　mergein the same impasse.

　　Invain I try to explain myself: the walls are deaf.

　　Beneaththe skin of words: ciphers and codes.

　　Thesun cheers the sick and doesn’t renew them.

　　Things.Considered without emphasis, how sad things are.

　　Andif I vomited this tedium over the city?

　　Fortyyears and not one problem

　　solved,nor even formulated.

　　Notone letter written or received.

　　Thepeople are all going home.

　　They’reless free but carry newspapers

　　andspell out the world, knowing they’ve lost it.

　　Howcan I forgive the world’s crimes?

　　Itook part in many. Others I concealed.

　　SomeI found beautiful, and they were published.

　　Soothingcrimes, which make life more bearable.

　　Adaily ration of error, delivered at our door.

　　Byruthless milkmen of evil.

　　Byruthless bread boys of evil.

　　Andif I set everything on fire, myself included?

　　Theycalled the adolescent of 1918 an anarchist,

　　butmy hatred is the best part of me.

　　Withoutit I’d be lost,

　　andwith it I can give a few people a slight hope.

　　Aflower has sprouted in the street!

　　Buses,streetcars, steel stream of traffic: steer clear!

　　Aflower, still pale, has fooled

　　thepolice, it’s breaking through the asphalt.

　　Let’shave complete silence, halt all business in the shops,

　　Iswear that a flower has been born.

　　Itscolor is uncertain.

　　It’snot showing its petals.

　　Itsname isn’t in the books.

　　It’sugly. But it really is a flower.

　　Isit down on the ground of the nation’s capital at five in the afternoon

　　andfondle with my fingers this precarious form.

　　Inland,over the mountains, thick clouds are gathering.

　　Inthe sea tiny white dots, panicked chickens, are moving.

　　It’sugly. But it’s a flower. It broke the asphalt, tedium, disgust, and hatred.

　　花与恶心

　　(巴西)卡洛斯·德鲁蒙德·德·安德拉德

　　被我的阶级和衣着所囚禁，

　　我一身白色走在灰白的街道上。

　　忧郁症和商品窥视着我。

　　我是否该继续走下去直到觉得恶心?

　　我能不能赤手空拳地反抗?

　　钟楼上的时钟里肮脏的眼睛：

　　不，全然公正的时间并未到来。

　　时间依然是粪便、烂诗、癫狂和拖延。

　　可怜的时间，可怜的诗人

　　困在了同样的僵局里。

　　我徒劳地试图对自己解释，墙壁是聋的。

　　在词语的皮肤下，有着暗号和代码。

　　太阳抚慰着病人，却没有让他们康复。

　　事物。那些不引人注目的事物是多么悲伤。

　　沿着城市呕吐出这种厌倦。

　　四十年了，没有任何问题

　　被解决，甚至没有被排上日程。

　　所有人都回到家里。

　　他们不怎么自由，但可以拿起报纸

　　拼读出世界，他们知道自己失去了它。

　　大地上的罪行，怎么可以原谅?

　　我参与了其中的很多，另一些我做得很隐蔽。

　　有些我认为很美，让它们得以出版。

　　柔和的罪行助人活命。

　　错误像每日的口粮，分发到家中。

　　烘焙着邪恶的狠心面包师。

　　运送着邪恶的狠心牛奶贩。

　　把这一切都点上火吧，包括我，

　　交给1918年的一个被称为无政府主义者的男孩。

　　然而，我的仇恨是我身上最好的东西。

　　凭借它我得以自救

　　还能留有一点微弱的希望。

　　一朵花当街绽放!

　　它们从远处经过，有轨电车，公共汽车，钢铁的车河。

　　一朵花，尽管还有些黯淡，

　　在躲避警察，穿透沥青。

　　请你们安静下来，停下手里的生意，

　　我确信一朵花正当街绽放。

　　它的颜色毫不起眼。

　　它的花瓣还未张开。

　　它的名字书中没有记载。

　　它很丑。但它千真万确是一朵花。

　　下午五点钟，我坐在一国之都的地面上

　　缓慢地把手伸向这尚未明朗的形状。

　　在山的那边，浓密的云团在膨胀。

　　一个个小白点在海上晃动，受惊的鸡群。

　　它很丑。但它是一朵花。它捅破了沥青、厌倦、恶心和仇恨。

　　口译： 翻译资格考试二级口译模拟题

　　笔译： 翻译资格考试二级笔译模拟题

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