She Who Shattered the Cup

The little poplar leaves dozed, and the river grew drunk,
and we were on its bank, a band gathered round a singer.

One of the beauties stole glances at me,
while the chanter's cry kept drawing me away from her,

and a cup kept drawing me too — whenever I sipped it
it beamed, and made me forget yesterday and tomorrow.

So she bit her lip in pride, and shattered
my cup in her fist with the fury of a brawling drunkard,

and stretched out to me her hand, its wound bleeding
over what had splintered into scattered wreckage,

and said: Feign ignorance of my passion, you wretch,
and press on in your ignorance as you please, and more —

for to him who does not see in my eyes what inflames me,
I have carried the wound of my heart upon my hand.

São Paulo — February 1940

From the collection: "Every Flower Has a Fragrance"