Backpfeife é tapa na cara. E um Backpfeifengesicht tem aquela pessoa que conseguiu endoidar até a sua cabeca.

Account by Czeslaw Milosz
The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. 
And the truth is laborious.


Berkeley, 1980.

HÄTSCHELKIND AM I

 Peace did not come into my life

 My life escaped

 and peace was there.

Often I bump into my life,

 trying to catch its breath,

 pay a bill,

 or tolerate the news,

 tripping as usual

 over the cables

 of someone’s beauty –

 My little life;

 so loyal,

 so devoted to its obscure purposes –

 And, I hasten to report,

 doing fine without me.

AND IT WAS LIKE THIS.  BUT A THOUSAND TIMES LIGHTER.  A THOUSAND TIMES SOFTER.  A THOUSAND TIMES  HOLIER. 

the last drink I never should'VE drunk.

You are my secrets on the front page every week.
You are the car I never should have bought.
You are the train I never should have caught.
You are the cut that makes me hide my face.
You are the party that makes me feel my age.

AS PEQUENAS DESGRAÇAS DE SE VIVER COM CONSCIÊNCIA.  DE SE NÃO PODER ELIMINAR DA ROTINA RECENTE AS NOVE-HORAS.  

MOINHO

 

E a noitinha já não deixava perceber que, depois dele, a água se tingia de sangue.