sexta-feira, 22 de janeiro de 2010

Poema do dia

Gillian Clarke

The Plumber

He'd often work crouched on the floor
his tool-bag agape beside him
like a wound.

He'd choose spanner or wrench,
tap for an airlock, blockage, leak,
for water's sound.

Not a man for talk. His work
a translation, his a clean trade
for silent hands.

Sweet water washed away waste,
the mud, the blood, the dirt.
the dead, the drowned,

the outcry, outfall, outrage of war
to holy ground.

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