O lindo, mais que lindo poema de Paulo Freire em momento de dor no exílio, foi lembrado pelo poeta, escritor e tradutor Peter Lownds, que lhe fez uma tradução para o inglês. Ele me enviou por email o poema e sua tradução no dia 2 de maio, dia em que fez 26 anos o falecimento do genial e eterno educador.

Peter Lownds, que traduziu meu romance “A mais longa duração da juventude” para o inglês com o título de “Never-Ending Youth” me enviou sua mensagem com estas palavras:

“Em homenagem ao vigésimo sexto aniversário do falecimento do patrono da educação dialógica e o inimigo sempiterno dos injustos humanos de toda estirpe, anexo um lindo poema dele junto com a minha humilde e velha tradução em inglês. 

Sempre esperançoso,

Peter”

Os leitores brasileiros não podem ficar sem esta memória estética.

RECIFE SEMPRE

(Paulo Freire)

De Santiago te escrevo, Recife,
Para falar de ti a ti,
Para dizer-te que te quero
Profundamente, que te quero.

Cinco anos faz que te deixei –
Manhã cedo – tinha medo de olhar-te,
Tinha medo de ferir-te
Tinha medo de magoar-te.
Manhã cedo – palavras não dizia.
Como dizer palavra se partia?

Tinha medo de ouvir-me,
Tinha medo de olhar-me,
Tinha medo de ferir-me,
Manhã cedo – as ruas atravessando
O aeroporto se aproximando,
O momento exato chegando,
Mil lembranças de ti me tomando
No meu silêncio necessário.

De Santiago te escrevo,
Para falar de ti a ti,
Para dizer-te de minha saudade, Recife,
Saudade mansa – paciente saudade,
Saudade bem-comportada.

Recife, sempre Recife, de ruas de
nomes tão doces,
Rua da União, que Manuel
Bandeira tinha “medo que
 se chamasse rua Fulano
de tal” e que hoje eu temo
que venha a se chamar
Rua Coronel Fulano de Tal.

Rua das creoulas
Rua da aurora
Rua da amizade
Rua dos Sete Pecados.

Recife sempre.
Teus homens do povo
queimados do sol
gritando nas ruas, ritmadamente:
Chora menino pra comprar pitomba!
Eu tenho lã de barriguda pra “trabiceiro”!
Doce de banana e goiaba!

Faz tanto tempo!
Para nós, meninos da mesma rua,
aquele homem que andava apressado
quase correndo – gritando, gritando:
Doce e banana e goiaba!
Aquele homem era um brinquedo também.
Doce de banana e goiaba!
Em cada esquina, um de nós dizia:
Quero banana, doce de banana!
Sorrindo já com a resposta que viria.

Sem parar,
sem olhar para trás,
sem olhar para o lado,
apressado, quase correndo,
o homem-brinquedo assim respondia:
“Só tenho goiaba
– Grito banana porque é meu hábito”.
Doce de banana e goiaba!
Doce de banana e goiaba!
Continuava gritando,
andando apressado,
sem olhar para trás,
sem olhar para o lado,
o nosso homem-brinquedo.

Foi preciso que o tempo passasse,
que muitas chuvas chovessem,
que muito sol se pusesse,
que muitas marés subissem e baixassem,
que muitos meninos nascessem,
que muitos homens morressem,
que muitas madrugadas viessem,
que muitas árvores florescessem,
que muitas Marias amassem,
que muito campo secasse,
que muita dor existisse,
que muitos olhos tristonhos eu visse,
para que entendesse
que aquele homem-brinquedo
era o irmão esmagado
era o irmão explorado
era o irmão ofendido
       o irmão oprimido
       proibido de ser.

Recife, onde tive fome
Onde tive dor
Sem saber por que
Onde hoje ainda
Milhares de Paulos
Sem saber por que
Têm a mesma fome
Têm a mesma dor,
Raiva de ti não posso ter.

No ventre ainda, ajudando a mãe
a pedir esmolas
a receber migalhas.
Pior ainda:
a receber descaso de olhares frios.
Recife, raiva de ti não posso ter.

Recife onde um dia tarde
No ventre ainda, ajudando a mãe
a pedir esmolas
a receber migalhas.
Pior ainda:
a receber descaso de olhares frios.
Recife, raiva de ti não posso ter.

Recife, cidade minha,
Já homem feito
Teus cárceres experimentei.
Neles, fui objeto
Fui coisa
Fui estranheza. Quarta feira. 4 horas da tarde.
O portão de ferro se abria.
Hoje é dia de visita.
Sem fila.

O relógio de minha casa também dizia
Um, dois, três, quatro,
Quatro, três, dois, um,
Mas sua cantiga era diferente.
Assim, cantando,
O tempo dos homens
Apenas marcava.
Recife, cidade minha,
Em ti vivi infância triste
Adolescência amarga em ti vivi.

Não me entendem
Se não te entendem
Minha gulodice de amor
Minhas esperanças de lutar
Minha confiança nos homens
Tudo isto se forjou em ti
Na infância triste
Na adolescência amarga
O que penso
O que digo
O que escrevo
O que faço
Tudo está marcado por ti.
Sou ainda o menino
Que teve fome
Que teve dor
Sem saber porque
só uma diferença existe
entre o menino de ontem
e o menino de hoje,
que ainda sou:
Sei agora por que tive fome
Sei agora por que tive dor.

Recife, cidade minha.
Se alguém me ama
Que a ti me ame
Se alguém me quer
Que a ti te queira.
Se alguém me busca
Que em ti me encontre
Nas tuas noites
Nos teus dias
Nas tuas ruas
Nos teus rios
No teu mar
No teu sol
Na tua gente
No teu calor
Nos teus morros
Nos teus córregos
Na tua inquietação
No teu silêncio
Na amorosidade de quem lutou
E de quem luta.
De quem se expôs
E de quem se expõe
De quem morreu
E de quem pode morrer
Buscando apenas
Cada vez mais
Que menos meninos
Tenham fome e
Tenham dor
Sem saber por que
Por isto disse:
Não me entendem
Se não te entendem.
O que penso,
O que digo,
O que escrevo,
O que faço,
Tudo está marcado por ti.
Recife, cidade minha,
Te quero muito, te quero muito.

Santiago, fevereiro de 1969.
Paulo Freire

Recife Forever*

(by Paulo Freire)

 

From Santiago I write you, Recife
to speak of you to you
to tell you I love you
deeply, I love you.

It’s been five years since I left you—
early morning—I was afraid to look  at you
afraid to wound you
afraid to embitter you.

Early morning—I didn’t say a word
What to say if you’re parting?
I was afraid to hear myself
afraid to look at myself
afraid to wound myself.

Early morning—crossing the streets
the airport drawing near
the moment of departure also
a thousand memories of you
crowding my enforced silence.
From Santiago I write you
to speak of you to you
to tell you of my saudade, Recife,
gentle longing—patient longing
well-behaved longing.

 

Recife, forever Recife,
of streets with such sweet names,
Union Street, which Manuel Bandeira
was afraid would be called
“Somebody or other street”
and which, today, I fear
will soon be called
“Colonel Somebody” street.
Street of the creole girls
Street of the dawn
Street of friendship
Street of the Seven Sins.

Recife forever.
Your men of the people
burnt umber by the sun
rhythmically shouting in the streets:
“Cry baby so mama buys you pitomba fruit!”
“I have a fat sheep’s wool for your pillows!”
“Sweet banana and guava paste!”

It seems so long ago!
For us, boys from the same street,
That man who walked so fast
almost running, shouting, shouting:
“Sweet banana and guava paste!”
At each corner, one of us would say:
“I want banana, sweet banana paste!”

Already smiling at the response to come.

Without stopping
without looking back
without looking to the side
walking fast, almost running
the mechanical man answered us:
“I only have guava—I cry
‘banana’ only from habit:
“Sweet banana and guava paste!
Sweet banana and guava paste!”
He continued to shout,
walking almost running
without looking back
without looking to the side
our mechanical man.

It was necessary for time to pass
much rain needed to fall
many suns had to set
many tides had to turn from high to low
lots of children needed to be born
many people had to die
many days needed to break
many trees had to bud and flower
many Marias had to fall in love
many fields to become dry
a lot of pain had to exist
I had to look into many sad eyes
in order to understand that
the man we treated like a toy
was my brother,
my downcast brother
my exploited brother
my offended brother
my brother oppressed,
prohibited from being.

Recife, where I was hungry

where I felt pain
without knowing why
where still today
so many, so terribly many
have the same hunger
without knowing why
have the same pain,
I cannot be angry at you.
Recife, where late one day
I was hungry
without knowing why
where still today
so many, so terribly many
have the same hunger
without knowing why
have the same pain,
I cannot be angry at you.
Recife, where late one day
I was hungry and knew not why
I thought so much
about those who were not eating
about those who had no clothes
about those who did not smile
about those who did not know
what to do with their lives.
I thought so much
about the disinherited ones
about the mistreated ones
about those who stood at the gate
but did not enter
about those who entered
but did not remain
about those who remained
but could not be
about the children
who were already working
before they were born
while still in the womb
helping their mothers
beg for alms and
receiving crumbs and
cold-hearted stares.
Recife, I am not angry at you.

I came to know your jails as a grown man.

One two three four
four three two one
forward and back again
whistles—lock step
soldier, do not think!
one two three four
four three two one
right left
halt! left right
soldier, do not think!
what I wanted
what I want,
what I will always want
is that people—all people
may eat
may have clothes
may wear shoes
may have children
and that the children
will not go hungry
will not be in pain
may play
may smile
may sing
may love
and may be loved.
Recife, city of mine
already a grown man
I came to know your jails.
In them I was an object
I was a thing
I was an oddity
Wednesday—four in the afternoon
the iron gate opened.
“Today is visitors’ day. Line up!
I’ll punish anyone who tries
To sneak in a single chocolate
I’ll search all of you.”
So said one of our ‘bosses’
In a harsh voice
A man smaller than his post
Then we marched awkwardly,
without cadence, toward our wounded wives
our afflicted mothers
our startled children.
In those meetings I discovered something new:
In front of Elza, my wife
and the Three Marias,
our daughters
I had many words to say
many things to ask
much hope to express
but a lot of hunger to subdue as well
and thirty minutes to eat and communicate.
In those meetings I discovered something:
words and food collide.

Recife, city of mine,
as a grown man,
I came to know your jails.
“Captain, when this doctor writes Creator,
meaning God, he writes it with a small c!
Creator with a big C is mine alone.”
The colonel, who owned the world
who owned the prisoners,
wanted to own God as well.
Wealthy colonel that one!
Poor man that one!
He wanted to make God a jailor
or his flunky
or his spy
to help him hunt subversives.

Recife, city of mine,
As a grown man I came to know your jails.
I dealt with silence
and solitary confinement.
I spent hours in a kind of box—
five feet six inches high
twenty-three inches wide.
Cold walls
rough walls
darkness.

I lived peacefully, I slept peacefully,
I regretted nothing
Recife, city of mine,
As a grown man I came to know your jails.
One two three four
four three two one
the men learning not to be men.
The clock in my house also tolled
one two three four
four three two one
but it sang a different song.
Singing this way
it only marked men’s days.

Recife, city of mine,
in you I lived a sad childhood
bitter adolescence I lived in you.
They cannot understand me if they do not understand you:
my greediness for love
my hope in the struggle
my confidence in the oppressed
all this was forged in me,
through my relations with you:
in the sad childhood,
in the bitter adolescence.
What I do
what I think
what I say
what I write,
everything bears your mark.
I am still the boy who was hungry,
who was in terrible pain
without knowing why.
Only one difference exists
between the boy of yesterday
and the boy of today,
who still lives within:
now I know why I was hungry
now I know why I was in pain.

Recife, city of mine, I say it out loud:
if someone loves me
they also love you.
If someone wants me
they must want you.
If someone looks for me
let them find me in you:
in your nights,
in your days
in your streets
in your rivers
in your sea
in your sun
in your people
in your heat
in your ravines
in your restlessness
in your silence
in the lovingness of those who fought
and who fight still
of those who exposed themselves
and who expose themselves still
of those who died
and who die still
while seeking, with increasing fervor,
that fewer children
will feel hunger and pain
without knowing why.
That is why I say:
they cannot understand me
if they do not understand you—
what I do
what I think
what I say
what I write
everything bears your mark.
Recife, city of mine,
from Santiago I write you
to tell you that I love you
deeply, that I love you.

*Written by Paulo Freire, Santiago de Chile, February 1969, translated from Portuguese by Peter Lownds.

 

 

https://talisandrade.blogs.sapo.pt/paulo-freire-sempre-5145814