>Nothing exists that hasn’t had a beginning.
>Even in the distance, a clear lit speck,
>in territories stripped from all limits, on
>sands that flow from unknown seas,
>we only contemplate the extent of what we perceived.
>If fields in livonia lead to fields in masuria,
>if tiles are smoothed in tepid bath waters,
>and further on graveyard follows graveyard, and
>in their midst, inert in the lack of wind, the birch wood stands,
>if the sun is the flame of the olive oil crumbling the bread
>or the chipped lightening on the walls of helsingør,
>if the death plot is everywhere the same,
>be it in the santa maria flute or in the tallinn concertina
>it is because we modulate in one place what has seeped from another.
>Even unwillingly, or perhaps it’s the shadows on the move,
>we weave no more than a row of chances and discretions
>along a current which takes each one of us, separately,
>to the most sensitive final passage.
>Even if laboriously we detach the places,
>detailing their diversions and extremes
>– the similarity between what they are and what we thought they were,
>even throughout regions intersected by extensive trains,
>where night will fall in scales of lavender,
>we’ll follow the same story – we sink our feet in the same mud.
>In that which repeatedly sucks us in,
>as we yearn for whatever comes to pass further in the next cove
>smoothing with our hands the oak trees on whose bark we inscribe,
>like others before us, our sinuous names, our loves,
>we constantly return to the point where all is repeated and begun,
>of which we grasp a mere minute – an instant,
>the blade mediating between this year and the next.
By Rui Cóias