A longa rua
que é a rua do mundo
passa pelo mundo
cheio de todas as pessoas do mundo
para não mencionar todas as vozes
de todas as pessoas
que já existiram
Quem ama e quem chora
virgens e travessas
Vendedores de espaguete e homens-sanduíche
leiteiros e oradores
banqueiros desossados
donas de casa zelosas
envoltas em esnobices de nylon
desertos de publicitários
manadas de secundaristas fogosas
multidões de colegiais
falando pelos cotovelos do mundo
e andando por aí
pendurando-se nas janelas
para ver o que está acontecendo
no mundo
onde tudo acontece
cedo ou tarde
se é que acontece mesmo
E a longa rua
que é a rua mais longa
em todo o mundo
mas que não é tão longa
como parece
passa
através de todas as cidades e todas as cenas
em cada beco
em cada boulevard
através de cada encruzilhada
através de luzes vermelhas e luzes verdes
cidades ao sol
continentes na chuva
Hong Kongs famintas
Tuscaloosas incapazes
Oaklands da alma
Dublands da imaginação
E a longa rua
rola em torno
como um enorme trem que apita
ofegando ao redor do mundo
com seus passageiros feridos
e bebês e cestas de piquenique
e gatos e cachorros
e todos eles estão se perguntando
quem está
no cabine à frente
pilotando o trem
se é que há alguém
o trem que corre ao redor do mundo
como um mundo que gira
todos se perguntando
o que está acontecendo
se há alguma coisa
e alguns deles se inclinando
e olhando para frente
e tentando pegar
um olhar do maquinista
em sua a cabine de um olho só
tentando vê-lo
vislumbrar sua face
para chamar a atenção
enquanto giram em torno de uma curva
mas eles nunca conseguem
embora de vez em quando
Parece que
eles estão conseguindo
E a rua passa a jogar boliche
com as janelas atingindo
as janelas de todos os edifícios
de todas as ruas do mundo
através da luz do mundo
pela noite do mundo
com sinais nos cruzamentos
Luzes perdidas piscando
multidões em carnavais
circos a boca da noite
Puteiros e parlamentos
fontes esquecidas
portas de adega e portas sem recursos
figuras na luz da lâmpada
Ídolos pálidos dançando
à medida que o mundo vai
Mas agora nós chegamos
à parte mais solitária da rua
Isso acontece
a parte solitária do mundo
E este não é o lugar
que você vai mudar de trem
para o Brighton Beach Express
Este não é o lugar
que você faz qualquer coisa
Esta é a parte do mundo
onde nada está acontecendo
onde ninguém está fazendo
qualquer coisa
onde ninguém está em qualquer lugar
ninguém ao lado
exceto você
nem mesmo um espelho
para fazer você em dois
nenhuma alma
a não ser a sua
talvez
e mesmo assim
não está lá
talvez
ou então não é a sua
talvez
porque você é o que se chama
morto
você alcançou sua estação
Desce!
which is the street of the world
passes around the world
filled with all the people of the world
not to mention all the voices
of all the people
that ever existed
Lovers and weepers
virgins and sleepers
spaghetti salesmen and sandwichmen
milkmen and orators
boneless bankers
brittle housewives
sheathed in nylon snobberies
deserts of advertising men
herds of high school fillies
crowds of collegians
all talking and talking
and walking around
or hanging out windows
to see what’s doing
out in the world
where everything happens
sooner or later
if it happens at all
And the long street
which is the longest street
in all the world
but which isn’t as long
as it seems
passes on
thru all the cities and all the scenes
down every alley
up every boulevard
thru every crossroads
thru red lights and green lights
cities in sunlight
continents in rain
hungry Hong Kongs
untillable Tuscaloosas
Oaklands of the soul
Dublands of the imagination
And the long street
rolls on around
like an enormous choochoo train
chugging around the world
with its bawling passengers
and babies and picnic baskets
and cats and dogs
and all of them wondering
just who is up
in the cab ahead
driving the train
if anybody
the train which runs around the world
like a world going round
all of them wondering
just what is up
if anything
and some of them leaning out
and peering ahead
and trying to catch
a look at the driver
in his one-eye cab
trying to see him
to glimpse his fave
to catch his eye
as they whirl around a bend
but they never do
although once in a while
it looks as if
they’re going to
And the street goes bowling on
with its windows reaching up
its windows the windows
of all the buildings
in all the streets of the world
bowling along
thru the light of the world
thru the night of the world
with lanterns at crossings
lost lights flashing
crowds at carnivals
nightwood circuses
whorehouses and parliaments
forgotten fountains
cellar doors and unfound doors
figures in lamplight
pale idols dancing
as the world rocks on
But now we come
to the lonely part of the street
that goes around
the lonely part of the world
And this is not the place
that you change trains
for the Brighton Beach Express
This is not the place
that you do anything
This is the part of the world
where nothing’s doing
where no one’s doing
anything
where nobody’s anywhere
nobody nowhere
except yourself
not even a mirror
to make you two
not a soul
except your own
maybe
and even that
not there
maybe
or not yours
maybe
because you’re what’s called
dead
you’ve reached your station.
Descend
passes around the world
filled with all the people of the world
not to mention all the voices
of all the people
that ever existed
Lovers and weepers
virgins and sleepers
spaghetti salesmen and sandwichmen
milkmen and orators
boneless bankers
brittle housewives
sheathed in nylon snobberies
deserts of advertising men
herds of high school fillies
crowds of collegians
all talking and talking
and walking around
or hanging out windows
to see what’s doing
out in the world
where everything happens
sooner or later
if it happens at all
And the long street
which is the longest street
in all the world
but which isn’t as long
as it seems
passes on
thru all the cities and all the scenes
down every alley
up every boulevard
thru every crossroads
thru red lights and green lights
cities in sunlight
continents in rain
hungry Hong Kongs
untillable Tuscaloosas
Oaklands of the soul
Dublands of the imagination
And the long street
rolls on around
like an enormous choochoo train
chugging around the world
with its bawling passengers
and babies and picnic baskets
and cats and dogs
and all of them wondering
just who is up
in the cab ahead
driving the train
if anybody
the train which runs around the world
like a world going round
all of them wondering
just what is up
if anything
and some of them leaning out
and peering ahead
and trying to catch
a look at the driver
in his one-eye cab
trying to see him
to glimpse his fave
to catch his eye
as they whirl around a bend
but they never do
although once in a while
it looks as if
they’re going to
And the street goes bowling on
with its windows reaching up
its windows the windows
of all the buildings
in all the streets of the world
bowling along
thru the light of the world
thru the night of the world
with lanterns at crossings
lost lights flashing
crowds at carnivals
nightwood circuses
whorehouses and parliaments
forgotten fountains
cellar doors and unfound doors
figures in lamplight
pale idols dancing
as the world rocks on
But now we come
to the lonely part of the street
that goes around
the lonely part of the world
And this is not the place
that you change trains
for the Brighton Beach Express
This is not the place
that you do anything
This is the part of the world
where nothing’s doing
where no one’s doing
anything
where nobody’s anywhere
nobody nowhere
except yourself
not even a mirror
to make you two
not a soul
except your own
maybe
and even that
not there
maybe
or not yours
maybe
because you’re what’s called
dead
you’ve reached your station.
Descend
LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
Tradução: M. Chalvinski
The Long Street, A Coney Island of the Mind
The Long Street, A Coney Island of the Mind
Art Tom Colbie
