Carlos Drummond de Andrade, em “O amor natural”. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1992.
Love – because that is an essential word
start this song and get it all involved.
Love guide my verse, and while I guide you,
gather soul and desire, limb and vulva.
Who will dare to say that he is only soul?
Who does not feel the soul expand in the body
until it blooms in pure scream
orgasm, in an instant of infinity?
The body in another intertwined body,
molten, dissolved, back to origin
of beings, which Plato saw completed:
it is one, perfect in two; are two in one.
Integration in bed or already in the cosmos?
Where does the room end and reach the stars?
What strength in our flanks transports us
to this extreme, ethereal, eternal region?
At the delicious touch of the clitoris,
everything is already transformed, in a flash.
In a tiny point of that body,
the source, the fire, the honey were concentrated.
Go penetration breaking clouds
and searching so bright suns
that human sight has never endured,
but, in the light, coitus follows.
And it goes on and spreads in such a way
that besides us, beyond life itself,
as an active abstraction that becomes flesh,
the idea of coming is coming.
And in suffering suffering between words,
less than that, sounds, gasps, woes,
a single spasm in us reaches climax:
is when love dies of love, divine.
How many times do we die in each other,
in the dank underground of the vagina,
in this death smoother than sleep:
the pause of the senses, satisfied.
Then peace is established. The peace of the gods,
lying on the bed, which statues
dressed in sweat, thanking
what to a god adds earthly love.