At the Dressing-Table - 1812
Kikukawa Eisan
sexta-feira, 28 de agosto de 2009
quarta-feira, 19 de agosto de 2009
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephones,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the planes and with muffled drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle mourning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out everyone
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the planes and with muffled drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle mourning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out everyone
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
by W. H. Auden
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