sexta-feira, 21 de janeiro de 2011


From Third Avenue On

And now she walks on out turned feet

Beside the litter in the street

Or rolls beneath a dirty sheet

Within the town.

She does not stir to doff her dress,

She does not kneel low to confess,

A little conscience, no distress

And settled down.

Ah God! she settles down we say;

It means her powers slip away

It means she draws back.

day by day

From good or bad.

And so she looks upon the floor

Or listens at an open door

Or lies her down, upturned to snore

Both loud and sad.

Or sits besides the chinaware,

Sits mouthing meekly in a chair,

With over-curled, hard waving hair

Above her eyes.

Or grins too vacant into space—

A vacant space is in her face—

Where nothing came to take the place

Of high hard cries.

Or yet we hear her on the stairs

With some few elements of prayers,

Until she breaks it off and swears

A loved bad word.

Somewhere beneath her hurried curse,

A corpse lies bounding in a hearse;

And friends and relatives disperse,

And are not stirred.

Those living dead up in their rooms

Must note how partial are the tombs,

That take men back into their wombs

While theirs must fast.

And those who have their blooms in jars

No longer stare into the stars,

Instead, they watch the dinky cars—

And live aghast.

Djuna Barnes

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