No lamaçal morre a esperança
Estímulos da turbulência
se aproximam em silêncio.
Antes que percebêssemos,
estamos perdidos.
Na epopéia desse martírio,
sofremos o suplício
dos dias aos quais não demos atenção.
Sofro a antecipação desses dias terríveis.
Grita a alma atormentada:
destino implacável.
Imperdoável foi a nossa omissão.
Fugitivos dos dias sombrios,
alma suja por essa lama,
lama da eterna corrupção.
Carlos de Campos
Our Lives Are Not Precious
(Poetic translation of Carlos de Campos original work)
The precious value of life —
a life constantly wounded
by our hollow existence
that insists on resisting the cold.
The cold of indifference
that condemns us,
that crushes us —
the cold of ignorance.
Life is precious.
But whose life?
The life living off scraps of dignity?
The life that dares not be happy?
What is life?
Is it the life found in a latrine?
Is it the life they want me to live?
Ah! What I know is
**my life is not precious.**
There is no dignity
where contempt is the currency.
Where indifference
makes all the difference —
and is always the best way.
Yes, life is precious...
but only for the one percent.
Our silence has brought us here,
where over ninety percent
prefer indifference.
It’s our national signature:
to be a submissive people,
always complaining —
but choosing to live
in the purest omission.
Translated from the original Portuguese version using AI to maintain poetic and emotional fidelity.
Memória e poesia 