Canção Para Álbum de Moça
Bom dia: eu dizia à moça
que de longe me sorria.
Bom dia: mas da distância
ela nem me respondia.
Em vão a fala dos olhos
e dos braços repetia
bom-dia a moça que estava
de noite como de dia
bem longe de meu poder
e de meu pobre bom-dia.
Bom-dia sempre: se acaso
a resposta vier fria ou tarde vier,
contudo esperarei o bom-dia.
E sobre casas compactas
sobre o vale e a serrania
irei repetindo manso
a qualquer hora: bom dia.
Nem a moça põe reparo
não sente, não desconfia
o que há de carinho preso
no cerne deste bom-dia.
Bom dia: repito à tarde
à meia-noite: bom dia.
E de madrugada vou
pintando a cor de meu dia
que a moça possa encontrá-lo
azul e rosa: bom dia.
Bom dia: apenas um eco na mata
(mas quem diria)
decifra minha mensagem,
deseja bom o meu dia.
A moça, sorrindo ao longe
não sente, nessa alegria,
o que há de rude também
no clarão deste bom-dia.
De triste, túrbido, inquieto,
noite que se denuncia
e vai errante, sem fogos,
na mais louca nostalgia.
Ah, se um dia respondesses
Ao meu bom-dia: bom dia!
Como a noite se mudara
no mais cristalino dia!
Song for a Young Lady's Album
Good morning: I said to the young lady
who smiled at me from afar.
Good morning: but from the distance
she didn't even respond to me.
In vain, the speech of the eyes
and arms repeated
good morning to the lady who was
at night as if it were day
far away from my reach
and my poor good morning.
Good morning always: if perhaps
the response comes cold or late,
still I will wait for the good morning.
And over compact houses
over the valley and the mountains
I will softly repeat
at any time: good morning.
The lady doesn't notice
doesn't feel, doesn't suspect
the affection held
in the core of this good morning.
Good morning: I repeat in the afternoon
at midnight: good morning.
And at dawn I go
painting the color of my day
so the lady may find it
blue and pink: good morning.
Good morning: just an echo in the woods
(but who would say)
deciphers my message,
wishes my day to be good.
The lady, smiling from afar
doesn't feel, in that joy,
what is also harsh
in the brightness of this good morning.
From sad, turbid, restless,
night that reveals itself
and goes wandering, without fireworks,
in the craziest nostalgia.
Ah, if one day you would respond
to my good morning: good morning!
How the night would change
into the most crystalline day!