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In the middle of the road
by Carlos Drummond de Andrade 
Translated by Elizabeth Bishop

In the middle of the road there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
there was a stone
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

Never should I forget this event
in the life of my fatigued retinas.
Never should I forget that in the middle of the road
there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

The Elephant
by Carlos Drummond de Andrade 
translated by Mark Strand 

I make an elephant
from the little
I have. Wood
from old furniture
holds him up,
and I fill him
with cotton, silk,
and sweetness.
Glue keeps his heavy
ears in place.
His rolled-up trunk
is the happiest part
of his architecture.
But there are also
his tusks made
of that rare material
I cannot fake.
What a white fortune
to be rolling around
in the dust of the circus
without being stolen or lost!
And finally there are
the eyes where the most
fluid and permanent
part of the elephant
stays, free of all fraud.

Here's my poor elephant
ready to leave
to find friends
in a jaded world
that no longer believes
in animals and doesn't
trust things.
Here he is: an imposing
and fragile hulk,
who shakes his head
and moves slowly,
his hide stitched
with cloth flowers
and clouds, allusions
to a more poetic world
where love reassembles
the natural forms.

My elephant goes
down a crowded street,
but nobody looks
not even to laugh
at his tail that threatens
to leave him.
He is all grace, except
his legs don't help
and his swollen belly
is about to collapse
at the slightest touch.
He expresses
with elegance
his minimal life
and no one in town
is willing to take
to himself
from that tender body
the fugitive image,
the clumsy walk,
hungry and touching,
but hungry for pitiful
people and situations,
for moonlit encounters
in the deepest ocean,
under the roots of trees
or in the bosom of shells,
for lights that do not blind
yet shine through
the thickest trunks.
That walk which goes
without crushing plants
on the battlefield,
searching for places,
secrets, stories
untold in any book,
whose style only the wind,
the leaves, the ant
recognize, but men
ignore since they dare
show themselves only
under a veiled peace
and to closed eyes.

And now late at night
my elephant returns,
but returns tired out,
his shaky legs
break down in the dust.
He didn't find
what he wanted,
what we wanted,
I and my elephant,
in whom I love
to disguise myself.
Tired of searching,
his huge machinery
collapses like paper.
The paste gives way
and all his contents,
forgiveness, sweetness,
feathers, cotton,
burst out on the rug,
like a myth torn apart.
Tomorrow I begin again.