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An Ox Looks at Man

They are more delicate even than shrubs and they run and run from one side to the other, always forgetting something. Surely they lack I don't know what basic ingredient, though they present themselves as noble or serious, at times. Oh, terribly serious, even tragic. Poor things, one would say that they hear neither the song of the air nor the secrets of hay; likewise they seem not to see what is visible and common to each of us, in space. And they are sad, and in the wake of sadness they come to cruelty. All their expression lives in their eyes--and loses itself to a simple lowering of lids, to a shadow. And since there is little of the mountain about them -- nothing in the hair or in the terribly fragile limbs but coldness and secrecy -- it is impossible for them to settle themselves into forms that are calm, lasting and necessary. They have, perhaps, a kind of melancholy grace (one minute) and with this they allow themselves to forget the problems and translucent inner emptiness that make them so poor and so lacking when it comes to uttering silly and painful sounds: desire, love, jealousy (what do we know?) -- sounds that scatter and fall in the field like troubled stones and burn the herbs and the water, and after this it is hard to keep chewing away at our truth.

~ Carlos Drummond de Andrade ~