WILD VINES
Beneath a willow entwined with ivy,
we look for shelter from the bad weather;
one raincoat covers both our shoulders -
my fingers rustle like the wild vine around
your breasts.
I am wrong. The rain’s stopped.
Not ivy, but the hair of Dionysus
hangs from these willows. What am I to do?
Throw the raincoat under us!
Boris Pasternak
(tradução de Robert Lowell)
«
Voltar