What is the source of songs? I would think it arrives from somewhere deep within, and is related to your birth, your education, your mother tongue. In short: your music begins with your roots. I would think that.
But then, a song like this arrives. We lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, far from the Midwestern farms and towns and kindnesses and communities, and further from the complicated, vital Brazilian noises from the south of that country. Isabela was just of school age, Nicolas a few years her senior. We walked to their classes each morning.
Along Magazine Street, north from our home; up to the park and then a left; usually telling stories as we went. There was the Bony Bus (inept pirates, whose ship is eaten by termites and sinks, swim to shore and, equally ineptly, commandeer a school bus: havoc ensues) and there was Peashooter Boy (rather remarkable in his ability to resolve very very difficult situations with his super-heroic abilities with peas and straws): many episodes of each. There was rain, of course, and there was shine.
One day we were walking along Magazine and one of the kids held a stick. Or maybe the kid that held the stick was me. Regardless which kid held stick, large or smaller or smallest, that stick reached out horizontally like a baton, reached to the edge of the sidewalk, reached the wrought iron fence that ran alongside the old brownstone apartments, and touched each vertical post: cling cling clang cling clang clang cling…!
I felt, then I thought, then I sang: “Os sinos da manhã // tocam na minha cidade…” It arrived complete with melody, in Portuguese. I guess the new fields in which we are planted, in which we plant ourselves, add to our harvest of roots. They certainly add to the words and ways of being at our disposal.
“Pretty prison” by Wolfgang Dieffenbach @ DeviantArt.com
I guess, by the end of this life, if I have discovered the delight hidden in a few more languages – presents wrapped in mystery and sound – I will die happy and perhaps with a song or two to express that happiness.
Os sinos da manha – Mark Schultz
| Os sinos da manhã | Bells of the Morning | |||||
| Os sinos da manhã tocam na minha cidade acordam minha gente com a sua canção |
The bells of the morning ring in my city waking my people with their song |
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| Levantam-se então ao som deste bom dia com as asas da luz do sol que amanhecia. |
Everyone rises, then to the sound of this good morning with wings made from light of the wakened sun. |
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| Os sinos da manhã curam os mais feridos que se perdem nas águas do mar dos seus sonhos |
The bells of morning heal those most wounded who get lost on the waters of their ocean of dreams |
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| Como a chama do farol atravessa as brumas e abraça o medo que deixou o olho cego |
Just as the beacon’s call breaks through the mist embraces the fear that took away sight |
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| Os sinos da manhã tocam na minha cidade como asas da luz do sol |
The bells of the morning ring above my city like wings made of light from the sun |
Cambridge, MA 2001
Byfield, MA 2003 (recorded)
N.B. corrections to grammar took place after the fact: I will never have a voice this clear again, so this recording remains, with so-so Portuguese accompanied by a certain lightness of spirit.
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