THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS (ROBERT HAYDEN)

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