At the B and B

The mystery is that there is no mystery,
Says the retired detective
Tamping his pipe ---
His father had lied to him
About honesty…

Otherwise, the room
Is sidetracked into seasonal detail,
Water dripping from eaves

Chipmunks begging for birdseed

After all these years, declares the hostess,
I'm afraid I still prefer Pissarro
Over Cézanne. She dabs
Her lips with a delicacy…

The howl of November approaches,
Dies back, twists wild roses
Along the stream bank

Such are the ravages of introspection,
She explains to the detective ---

Someone had lied to her too

///

At the B&B (*)

O mistério é que não há mistério,
Diz o detective reformado
Enchendo o seu cachimbo ---
O pai mentiu-lhe
Sobre a honestidade…

Por outro lado, a sala
É marginalizada pelo detalhe sazonal,
A água a pingar dos beirais

Os esquilos a pedirem alpista

Depois de todos estes anos, declara a dona do hotel
Temo ainda preferir Pissarro
A Cézanne. E limpa
Os lábios com delicadeza…

O uivo de Novembro aproxima-se,
Morre de novo, agita as rosas bravas
Ao longo da margem do riacho

Tais são as devastações da introspecção
Explica ela ao detective ---

Também alguém lhe teria mentido

by Robert VANDERMOLEN, at "POETRY" Magazine (USA), June 2007

(Portuguese translated by Armando TABORDA, 2018)

(photo taken from Internet; edited by Armando TABORDA)

(*) Bed and Breakfast hotel