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Sample translations submitted: 1
English to Portuguese: One of the translated texts as part of the course at www.prolingua.com General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English "The sun rose as we moved off down the road. There was no breath of wind, and above the tall chimneys and the slagheaps of the steelworks smoke from the hung in curious horizontal layers. Cooking-fires began to glimmer through the doorways of mean houses. Women, bucket in hand, paused to stare on their way to the wells. Feet and hoofs made hardly any noise at all in the thick dust, which sprang up and hung around us in a grey cloud and lent the marching men a ghostly air as they wound eastwards through the outskirts of the town. Nobody talked, but from the tail of the column came the screaming of the transport-wagons’ axles, the faint cracking of their drivers’ whips.
At six o’clock we halted. The men breakfasted off cold rice and pickles, issued in neat, flimsy little baskets. Already the officers with whom we rode began to stand out as individuals. The Major, an unsmiling, dour little man, rather bow-legged; the Adjutant, a full-bodied forceful warrior, who looked alternately very fierce and very merry; the Doctor, slim, handsome, bespectacled, the only man except for M. and myself whose head was not cropped. None of them spoke English, but they were very good to us in an off-hand way. If they looked on our presence as a nuisance, they did not show it. Rather, they regarded us with a certain perplexity. They felt that we were a joke, but could not be quite certain what the joke was. "
PETER FLEMING (adapted)
Translation - Portuguese O sol nasceu enquanto íamos estrada abaixo. Não havia nem uma brisa sequer e sobre as chaminés altas e os resíduos das siderúrgicas, a fumaça das fornalhas pairava em forma de curiosas camadas horizontais. O fogo dos fogões começou a brilhar por debaixo das portas das casas humildes. As mulheres, com baldes nas mãos, paravam para olhar seus caminhos até as cisternas. Pés e cascos quase não faziam barulho nenhum na poeira grossa, que surgia do solo e pairava à nossa volta numa nuvem cinza e emprestava aos homens que marchavam um ar fantasmagórico à medida que eles cortavam ao leste os arredores da cidade. Ninguém conversava, mas da base da coluna vinha o grito dos eixos das carroças, o barulho abafado dos chicotes dos seus condutores.
Às seis horas, paramos. Para o café da manhã, os homens serviram-se de arroz frio com picles, guardados em cestinhasflexíveis. Os oficiais com quem viajamosjá começavam a se destacar como indivíduos. O major, um homenzinho austero e indiferente, um tanto cambota; o ajudante de ordens, um guerreiro cheio de energia, que parecia ora muito bruto, ora muito feliz; o doutor, esguio, bonito, de óculos, o único homem, além de M. e eu, cujo cabelo não estava cortado ao estilo militar. Nenhum deles falava inglês, mas foram muito bons para nós sem pedir nada em troca. Se eles acharam que nossa presença incomodava, não demonstraram. Ao contrário, nos consideraram com certa perplexidade. Eles nos acharam uma piada, mas não tinham muita certeza piada de que.
PETER FLEMING (adaptado)
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Years of experience: 11. Registered at ProZ.com: Jul 2014.
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