O Lutador

The Fighter *

Carlos Drummond de Andrade **
Fight with words
is the most vain fight.
Yet we fight
when dawn breaks.
There are many, I am few.
Some, as strong
as the boar.
I don't consider myself crazy.
If I were, I would
have the power to enchant them.
But lucid and cold,
I appear and try
to catch some
for my sustenance
in a day of life.
They let themselves be entwined,
dizzy with caresses
and suddenly flee
and there is no threat
and no cruelty
that brings them back
to the center of the square.

I insist, cunning.
I seek to persuade them.
I will be a slave to them
of rare humility.
I will keep our trade
secret.
In my voice, no trace
of anger or displeasure.
Without hearing me, they glide,
passing by lightly
and turn my face.
Fighting with words
seems fruitless.
They have no flesh and blood...
Yet, I fight.

Word, word
(I say exasperated),
if you challenge me,
I accept the fight.
I wish to possess you
in this open field,
without a nail's path
or a tooth mark
on this clear skin.
You prefer the love
of an impure possession
and let the pleasure come rom the greatest torture.

I fight hand to hand,
fight all the time,
with no greater benefit
than hunting the wind.
I find no clothes,
can't grasp forms,
it's a fluid enemy
that bends my muscles
and laughs at the rules
of a good fight.

Sometimes I delude myself,
sense that the surrender
will be consummated.
I already see words
in submissive chorus,
this one offering me
its old warmth,
that one its glory
made of mystery,
another its disdain,
another its jealousy,
and a wise love
teaches me to enjoy
each word
the captured essence,
the subtle complaint.
But alas! it's the moment
to half-open the eyes:
between kiss and mouth,
everything evaporates.

The cycle of the day
now concludes
and the useless duel
never resolves.
Your beautiful face,
oh word, shines
in the curve of the night
that envelops me entirely.
Such passion
and no pecuniary gain.
With the doors closed,
the fight continues
in the streets of sleep.