Residue (1/2)

From everything a little remained.

From my fear. From your disgust.

From stifled cries. From the rose

a little remained.

A little remained of light

caught inside the hat.

In the eyes of the pimp

a little remained of tenderness,

very little.

A little remained of the dust

that covered your white shoes.

Of your clothes a little remained,

a few velvet rags, very

very few.

From everything a little remained.

From the bombed-out bridge,

from the two blades of grass,

from the empty pack

of cigarettes a little remained.

So from everything a little remains.

A little remains of your chin

in the chin of your daughter.

A little remained of your

blunt silence, a little

in the angry wall,

in the mute rising leaves.

A little remained from everything

in porcelain saucers,

in the broken dragon, in the white flowers,

in the creases of your brow,

in the portrait.

Since from everything a little remains,

why won't a little

of me remain? In the train

travelling north, in the ship,

in newspaper ads,

why not a little of me in London,

a little of me somewhere?

In a consonant?

In a well?

-- Carlos Drummond de Andrade