Recitamos os fragmentos do poema People encontrados no livro Sociedade sem escolas de Ivan Illich. Os
fragmentos acompanham a procura de Illich por um nome para se referir aos que
amam mais as pessoas do que os produtos, aos que amam a Terra onde cada um pode
encontrar o outro. Recitamos também o poema completo em sua tradução para a
língua inglesa encontrado no Poem hunter:
Ninguém é desinteressante.
Seu destino é semelhante à crônica dos planetas.
Nada há nele que não seja particular,
cada planeta é diferente de outro.
E se uma pessoa viver na obscuridade,
fizer seus amigos nesta obscuridade,
a obscuridade não é desinteressante.
para cada um seu mundo é privado,
e neste mundo um excelente minuto,
e neste mundo um trágico minuto,
estes são privados.
¿!
No people are
uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.
Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.
And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.
To each his world is private
and in that world one excellent minute.
And in that world one tragic minute
These are private.
In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight
it goes with him.
There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery
Whose fate is to survive.
But what has gone is also not nothing:
by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.
Whom we knew as faulty, the earth's creatures
Of whom, essentially, what did we know?
Brother of a brother? Friend of friends?
Lover of lover?
We who knew our fathers
in everything, in nothing.
They perish. They cannot be brought back.
The secret worlds are not regenerated.
And every time again and again
I make my lament against destruction.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.
Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.
And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.
To each his world is private
and in that world one excellent minute.
And in that world one tragic minute
These are private.
In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight
it goes with him.
There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery
Whose fate is to survive.
But what has gone is also not nothing:
by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.
Whom we knew as faulty, the earth's creatures
Of whom, essentially, what did we know?
Brother of a brother? Friend of friends?
Lover of lover?
We who knew our fathers
in everything, in nothing.
They perish. They cannot be brought back.
The secret worlds are not regenerated.
And every time again and again
I make my lament against destruction.
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
