THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Robert Hayden
AQUELES DOMINGOS DE INVERNO
Mesmo aos domingos o meu pai levantava-se cedo
e vestia a roupa sob o frio negrazulado,
depois, com as mãos gretadas, doridas
do trabalho da semana fria, acendia
a lareira. Nunca ninguém lhe agradeceu.
Eu acordava e ouvia o frio crepitar, a quebrar-se.
Com as salas já aquecidas, ele chamava-me,
e lentamente eu levantava-me e vestia-me,
receoso das crónicas iras daquela casa,
Falava indiferentemente com ele,
que tinha afastado o frio
e também engraxado os meus melhores sapatos.
Que sabia eu, que sabia eu
dos austeros e solitários ritos do amor?
Robert Hayden
