for Rui Nogar “father” of Tingane

In the hearts of men
life is a great landscape
of fresh hay and rain and sun
that gives feeling to the leaves of the cashews
and caresses the trembling soul
so it can pound the corn into meal.

And it is in the witchcraft of the fingers
in the dreams of the measured beat
the world liberated by marrabenta
from the strained lines on the map of Tingane.

Paths to everywhere
on a Sunday afternoon at Xipamanine market
and to Tingane and the violin of Tingane
the rhythm
the rhythm
the old inconceivable rhythm
of a dance made new.
orig. José Craveirinha

The Fado Violin

I place my hands on your musical body
Where they hope for dormant sounds.
I begin in silence which brings about
The unexpected outburst of real sound.
And when the soul ascends and sings,
Playing the scales of feelings,
Neither the body nor the soul tells a lie.
It isn’t our fault if the throat becomes
Hoarse and if the silence suddenly
Blurts out raw dissonance, or an
Exasperating screech of the wrong chord.

If in silence a song grows weak and
Another sound insinuates itself, or is recalled,
It’s not too late for the song to die out or become mute:
But this is not allowed by the fado violin.
orig. José Saramago