"Mr. Carlos Drummond de Andrade is a adequate writer who thinks himself a good poet, in which he is deluded. Having signed some short stories and articles as a writer he has revealed a knowledge of certain gracious forms of expression, certain humour and malice. As a poet, he lacks all these qualities and, furthermore, has the following defects: he is maimed, arbitrary, unsoundly, grotesque and foolish.'
It Didn’t Pass
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Translation: Adam Charles
Did it pass?
swallowed through minimal watches
they resonate in the cavernous mind.
No, no one died, no one was unhappy.
The hand- your hand, our hands-
wrinkled, with an ancient heat
of when we were alive. Were we?
Today we are more alive than ever.
A lie, we are alone.
Nothing, that I feel, really passes.
It is all the illusion that it has passed.