maria shimani

S h i m a n i

Whenever I remember that childhood house by the sea

your eyes come back to me as gentle as a wounded doe

moist with humility

as constant as remorse.

Do you remember the straw hut at Guachene, my friend?

In my selfish, possessive arms,

there was always a smiling doll, with cat-green eyes.

In in your always empty arms, Shimani,

only enormous, unfulfilled tenderness,

the true tenderness of a mother.

Your gentle eyes like a wounded doe,

with their eternal gleam of resignation,

would caress frequently, lingeringly, almost with despair,

my beautiful blond doll.

Do you remember?

Then it was Christmas

and my silk dress, with the frills,

was a highlight of the day.

And the beautiful little stove that Papa brought,

the goldring from my Godfather,

and the crayons that came from Sr. Romeu,

and the white shoes that were Mama's gift?

And the cakes, the arroz doce,

the roast sucking pig,

and the flowers on the white-clothed table in the dining room?

Christmas, Shimani, today is Christmas!

Did you go to mass, like me,

did you go to mass Shimani?

No, Shimani did not go to mass.

Shimani most likely does not even now that today is Christmas,

because she did not put on a dress with frills.

She wore the same striped dress as every day,

old and worn out, bought form the Indian in the bazaar.

And the same barefoot, with no present, nothing.

Just her big, gentle eyes like a wounded doe,

in her shining face, speared on her long, thin neck.

Ah Shimani, on that day

you shared my Christmas.

You shared every Christmas ever since.

But now? What now?

Who can whipe away the ever-present tear

from the look in your eyes like a wounded doe,

constant as remorse, your look

that hurts beyond all comparing?

Ah Simani, my Shimani!

-Noémia de Sousa-

[bron]