Thanks a lot for your review!
Caburé I’m translate for myself, but a other iten mine in Urbis was translation by my friend from Seattle and talk about Sanumá and your pact with a Yama, a lord of death
Short Story / Caburé (Analysis)
A becoming voice acts on the soul of things but no voice of all the ages is more powerful, nor more beautiful than the sound that blossomed from the flute of Caburé. Caburé lived in a land that brought cures and not destruction. He learned to touch his flute of bamboo, hearing the waterfall, the South Wind and the singing of the calm sea, while the days ran with the smoothness of a quick river. One song was born of such beauty that it seemed to have been made of enchanted dust, collected from all that is prettier in the world, and victorious in beauty. Although Caburé was physically ugly, his song contained a mine of treasures as deep as the ocean. I do not exaggerate to say that there exists no other song in the world such as this. Through the flute of Caburé, the grumble of time is transformed into melody.
The bamboo of the flute of Caburé had three punctures and was not treated to dry in the fire but treated for permanence in backwater for three moons and a lying moon in current waters of the River Jeribucaçú. Beyond the flute, Caburé also dominated handling the gaita, made of a series of bamboo shoots bound one to the other with cotton cords.
Bamboo is like a pretty woman, full of vanity and whims. It can only be harvested in the declining moon and hours before dawn and always in the winter before the birth of new sprouts. At this time, Bamboo has little sugar and does not attract insects or fungus. Immature Bamboo has the flexibility of youth and is good for weaving and making baskets. For construction it is good to use old bamboo. After drying, bamboo will give more resistance and brightness when burned, which drives away insects.
Caburé shared with me secrets and desires of the flute. I learned a lot with Caburé, the blow of his flute had the soul of an orchid. Cabure did not only touch Iauacã, or the magic whistle, working with a dash of cinnamon and used by shamans to invoke protective supernatural beings. With his melody, he enchanted the ears and soul of Maina, the Indian who had a smile that she hid, cool as brook sound beating the rocks. The full moon diving backwards behind a cloud in the night is not more wonderful than her smile.
Love is a feeling stronger than even it knows. Maina was enchanted with Caburé and Caburé was enchanted with Maina. For where they passed the gram grew blue . Love does not place conditions, love is for loving. Caburé found it a more valuable treasure than an entire kingdom. They lived happily, in constant war between love and madness. They had chosen Summer, after the rains, to marry, at the time where the Ipes blossoms and cashews ripen. His flute’s song at this time, was light as a breeze across the land, soft and too beautiful to be ignored by anyone. Singing infused with love. When will they have one day or night alone where Yama cannot come? Or somebody who has become immortal for not fighting? Poor boy of destiny. Young twilights exist. Distinct is the destination of butterflies that live only eight hours and when writing their story, are proud in the kingdom where sun never sets.
The invitation of Death was sent for Caburé in a black envelope with red and white lettering, sent before the estio, the lull after many days of rain. It was carried through bitter fruits, fallen roots and seed enodadas, and across droughts in the Mount of Siriaco, where lives the Cobra Coral-Verdadeira, who moving itself noiselessly through the forest, found a victim. With a bite in the leg, and intentionally far from the land that could save the life of Caburé. He would not live for more than one hundred beats of the heart. Caburé, feeling his life run quick as a river for its stream bed, used the advantage of this time that remained with a touching rhythm and sad melody, that whispered of love and agony. Bathed in tears, while his body hardened, and his heart tore into pieces, he declared his love for Maina in that song. Maina, the girl who disturbed the moon with her heart that beat crazy for joy for listening to the songs of that man.
Beyond the racket of the strokes of his heart, another thing disturbed the Moon, awakening its jealousy: the joy and beauty that sprouted from the lips of Maina all the time that Caburé touched the flute. Caburé translated all his love for Maina in his song. While he emitted his last sighs, he directed his last look toward the trees. The moon had no more envy than the bees: Caburé also sang until his death. The music awakened Ê-vê that after who delighted with the flavorful melody of Caburé was completely tipsy. He only returned to reality when he listened to the shouts of Maina and his friends when finding beside the Dende tree, the hardened body of Caburé, pale as the moonlight of Autumn. The tears of Maina were heavy and Ê-vê felt compassion with her sadness.
He spoke with Yama
– Yama, madness of the Gods is wiser than the wisdom of men. You, who are carrying the desires of Death, even as you lead, is there one who sings prettier in the forest? From where will the consolation come to return a smile to the face of Maina?
– You know, Ê-vê, few are the worthy ears if the Gods and some of them already have contemplated the song of Caburé and the Land, and all have made great consideration of the treasures that are found there, all than mundane men cherish as wealth.The song of Caburé is pure nectar. The melody of its song could remove the oldness of any man. The sadness of Maina moved me also, but we ourselves are creators of our happiness and suffering. Who becomes attached to something will lose it, and for this reason the scholar is not self-centered, and for this he never fails. He becomes attached to nothing and therefore loses nothing. All the things have origin in the mind, being thus, we need to assume responsibility for everything good or bad that we live deeply. I never had a desire that I could not carry through because I was never blinded.
—Wise words, Yama, scholars know that all wisdom consolidates in simplicity. But never had I heard the music of Caburé; and now that I listened to it, I perceive that legends are on the side of the truth; therefore, this singing ends to imprison my heart. I am chained by Desire, incapable to change or free myself. I moan to one day have loved some thing or person; therefore now the loss is mine as well. Will you allow me to transform Caburé into a bird?
—I cannot refuse the order, Ê-vê. Precious essences are kept in closed containers so that do not evaporate. In addition, it will not be difficult for Caburé to adapt to his new life, since he has the soul of a bird. Good people do not die, but are magic. How much for Maina they will be the happy souvenirs.
Thus it was said and thus it was done. Ê-vê saw and followed with his celestial eyes the soul of Caburé that fell in return to land and was transformed into a bird. For irony of the Gods, the bird was similar to Caburé, despite its olive color and colored tails, it had no special beauty, but even today no one contests a better troubadour of the forest.
The best singer of the bushes sings only two times per year, in the precise hour when night transforms into day, always after rains, in the dew and the mist, when light of the sun is gentle and the air is soft. Irapuru is its name, and when it entones its sad song, that lasts no more than one hundred strokes of the heart, all the little birds fall completely silent. Silence falls has led as the night watchman of the mornings of winter, respectful and intent, for all the bush listen to the mournful voice of the Irapuru consoling its loved one.
Morning means recommencing. After listening to its song sufficiently strong that it spreads out soon and is diluted by the day, all the other birds and animals of the bush rediscover madness and the pleasure of being together as living creatures and sing the same song and eternalize this instant of attracting and starting to make love and to kiss in homage to live, because the singing of the Irapuru bears the pure ancestral soul, made of bush and freedom, of nakedness and water, alive, sap of the free world. A shield for the sadness, balsam for death, hope for rebirth. A poem-song that goes with the South Wind, if not regaining new force, singing a dream that was dared to dream.
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aprilsmiles reviewed Version 2 -
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andrzej reviewed Version 2 -
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Colorful writing. Nice ancient climate of nature.
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derekosborne reviewed Version 2 -
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A pretty fable. Is this folk lore from where you live? Your coloquial English actually helps the narrative, though the story is beautiful enough to stand on it’s own. You know Americans are suckers for any quaint dialect. To critcize the writing seems almost impolite. Still, it needs to be cleaned up a little. I think perhaps by someone who knows English Lit and all the rules. Still, an entertaining piece. I saw it as a prologue to a novel.
firemaidenphoenix reviewed Version 2 -
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delon reviewed Version 2 -
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Brian76 reviewed Version 2 -
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I have similar problems like you. I’m not an English speaking person by birth. There are a few errors in your English but not too disturbing ones. One can easily follow the story and your thougths.
It’s a well written piece with much mysticism. I think it’s very cool.
Courtney_C reviewed Version 1 -
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OMG this is good. I have read short stories but this is by far my favorite. I read it again to savor the story. Where does this take place? If you wrote it in I probably missed it but anyway I liked the story very much. I would like to read more of you excellent short stories.
-CC
paulfogarty reviewed Version 1 -
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Ok, you need to start with much more simple pieces of english writing. It is difficult to review this piece because you don`t have an understanding of something about using the English language and I am not sure what it is. I will try to figure it out and get back to you.
For example, the first line: “The become voice conscientious acts on the soul of the things, but for more powerful than they could be the voices, no age more beautiful than the sound that blossomed of the flute of Caburé.” It is difficult to figure out what this is about. Is it about some future voice, some future group consciousness that is linked to each person`s soul? Ok. you mentioned the flute of Cabure…so I guess Cabure is a person?
I feel you should write very very simple sentences with just a few words. And then you can add other simple words to those simple sentences. But anytime you need to use a comma, then the sentence is getting too complex and English is obviously not structured in the same way as your native language, which, if my hunch is correct, is Spanish or Portuguese.
So try simple simple simple sentences. Then add simple qualitative words like adjectives to those simple simple sentences. Like this: “Jack and Jill went up the hill.” Then it becomes: “Young Jack and thin Jill went half way up the long steep hill.” You see what I mean? Simple simple. No commas. No complex structure. Hope this helps a little bit.
Claricelispector reviewed Version 1 -
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Really nice and beautiful tale! I really love this piece. Is it your second tale? You need translate more tales to us enjoy!
Like a Sanumá tale we can fell Love, Death, Philosophy… o lot things inside a same history! I love this image: “Caburé translated its love all the Mainá in its song. While it emitted its last sighs, it directed its last look friend for the trees. It did not have more envy of the buzzers: Caburé also went to sing until dying.”
Keep writing!
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