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THE poet was riding, drunken, in the tram. The day was breaking

beyond the gardens. The joyful pensions were sleeping full of sad­-

ness. The houses moving by were drunk, as well.

    Everything was irreparable. No one knew that the world would

come to an end (only one child noticed, but he kept quiet), that the

world would come to an end at 7.45.

    Final thoughts! Final telegrams! José, who placed pronouns in

the right place, Helena, who loved men,

    Sebastian, who would go bankrupt, Arthur, who never said any-

­thing, are all embarking for eternity.

    The poet is drunk, but he hears a cry at dawn: Shall we all go

and dance between the tram and the tree?

    Between the tram and the tree, dance, my brothers! Dance, my

brothers, even though without music!

    Children are being bom so spontaneously. What a wonderful

thing love is (love and other products). Dance, my brothers! Death

will come later, like a sacrament.


Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Dance Poetry
A comprehensive anthology
Edited by Alkis Raftis
Copyright 2012