sexta-feira, 30 de agosto de 2013

da Irlanda (ii)

Some day I will go to Aarhus 
To see his peat-brown head, 
The mild pods of his eye-lids, 
His pointed skin cap. 

In the flat country near by 
Where they dug him out, 
His last gruel of winter seeds 
Caked in his stomach, 

Naked except for 
The cap, noose and girdle, 
I will stand a long time. 
Bridegroom to the goddess, 

She tightened her torc on him 
And opened her fen, 
Those dark juices working 
Him to a saint's kept body, 

Trove of the turfcutters' 
Honeycombed workings. 
Now his stained face 
Reposes at Aarhus. 


I could risk blasphemy, 

Consecrate the cauldron bog 
Our holy ground and pray 
Him to make germinate 

The scattered, ambushed 
Flesh of labourers, 
Stockinged corpses 
Laid out in the farmyards, 

Tell-tale skin and teeth 
Flecking the sleepers 
Of four young brothers, trailed 
For miles along the lines. 


Something of his sad freedom 
As he rode the tumbril 
Should come to me, driving, 
Saying the names 

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, 

Watching the pointing hands 
Of country people, 
Not knowing their tongue. 

Out here in Jutland 
In the old man-killing parishes 
I will feel lost, 
Unhappy and at home. 

Seamus Heaney, "The Tollund Man". 

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