On the sheet, on your side,
already so marine a scene,
you were looking like a wave
lying down on the beach.
A wave that was stopping
or better: that was refraining;
that would contain a moment
its murmur of liquid leaves.
A wave that was stopping
at that precise hour
when the eyelid of the wave
drops over its own pupil.
A wave that was stopping
in breaking, interrupted,
would stop itself, immobile,
at the height of its crest
and would make itself a mountain
(being horizontal and fixed)
but in becoming a mountain
would yet continue to be water.
A wave that would keep,
in a seashore bed, finite,
the nature without end
that it shares with the sea,
and in its immobility,
guessed to be precarious,
que as águas faz femininas
mais o clima de águas fundas,
a intimidade sombria
e certo abraçar completo
que dos líquidos copias.
that makes the waters feminine,
and the climate of deep waters,
the shadowy intimacy,
and a certain full embrace
you copy from the liquids.
Translated by Ashley Brown