Portuguese to English Other Poetry & Literature Lyrical poetry

Warning: If you are a necrophobe, this poem may not be for you. :-)

A little background:

According to anecdotal evidence, this poem was inspired by a lithograph that Fernando Pessoa saw when visiting a friend. As it so happens with literary criticism, there seems to be hardly ever a consensus on ANYTHING. There are those who disagree by arguing that Pessoa was not candid about his "real" inspiration. They point out what they call "striking" similarities between "O menino da sua mãe" and Arthur Rimbaud's "Le Dormeur du Val" (The Sleeper of the Valley). I read both and I must say Pessoa's creation is far superior. (What struck me most, besides the imagery, was Pessoa's unmatched ability to simplify, making shorter lines, versus Rimbaud's wordiness.) But hey, who cares who inspired whom? The poem is beautiful on its own merits, although the theme (death) may not be appreciated by all.

Now to the question: I understand "Agora que idade tem?" as a shift in the narrative, from the past to the present. Am I right? If so, does "now" have to be moved to the end of the question?

Comments/suggestions for improvement are greatly appreciated. I gave up on rhyming. Thanks in advance.

No plaino abandonado
Que a morna brisa aquece,
De balas traspassado
— Duas, de lado a lado —,
Jaz morto, e arrefece.

Raia-lhe a farda o sangue.
De braços estendidos,
Alvo, louro, exangue,
Fita com olhar langue
E cego os céus perdidos.

Tão jovem! que jovem era!
(Agora que idade tem?)
Filho único, a mãe lhe dera
Um nome e o mantivera:
«O menino da sua mãe».

Caiu-lhe da algibeira
A cigarreira breve.
Dera-lha a mãe. Está inteira
E boa a cigarreira.
Ele é que já não serve.

De outra algibeira, alada
Ponta a roçar o solo,
A brancura embainhada
De um lenço... Deu-lho a criada
Velha que o trouxe ao colo.

Lá longe, em casa, há a prece:
«Que volte cedo, e bem!»
(Malhas que o Império tece!)
Jaz morto, e apodrece,
O menino da sua mãe.

Tentative translation:

On the desolate plain
That the morning breeze warms,
Wounded by bullets
— Two, from side to side —,
He lies dead, and cold.

His clothes, stained with blood.
He was fair-skinned, blond, pale,
With arms extended,
And a blank, dead stare
He gazes lost upon the skies.

So young! how young he was!
(How old could he be now?)
The only son, the mother gave him
A name and kept it:
«The apple of his mother's eye».

Out of his pocket, a brief
Cigarette case fell.
It was a gift from his mother.
The case is still intact, useful.
He is the one that is useless.

Out of the other pocket, the tip
Of a white handkerchief
Brushes the ground.
It was a gift from an old maid
Who had nurtured him.

Far away, at home, there is a prayer:
«May he come back soon, and safe!»
(A big irony of Fate!)
His body lies dead, and decays,
The apple of his mother's eye.
© Oliver Simões