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Fernando Pessoa
Fernando Pessoa foi um poeta, escritor, crítico literário, tradutor e filósofo português, considerado um dos maiores expoentes da literatura em língua portuguesa e um dos mais relevantes poetas do século XX. A sua vasta obra, marcada pela criação de múltiplos heterónimos com personalidades e estilos distintos, explora temas como a identidade, a angústia existencial, a saudade e a busca por significado num mundo em constante transformação. Pessoa deixou um legado literário complexo e multifacetado, que continua a fascinar e a desafiar leitores e críticos.
1888-06-13 Lisboa
1935-11-30 Lisboa
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THE SEPULCHRE
Mystery, mystery is here
That brings a joy with a fear.
Oh, that Death should greater be
Than Time and Space and all we see,
That Change should deeper be than thought
And Time, like a portentous tomb,
Should feel corruption in its womb
Yet itself crumble like its rot!
For e'en the sepulchre's cold stones
Shall have a death like the dead bones
They shut in.
(What coffer can lock
Corruption out? or rottenness
What wit with cell and bolt can mock?)
Ay, even marble shall like bodies die
A death, shall have an end. The passer-by
Shall tread the dust of the stone
That on the grave did lie,
In dust now like each bone.
For to Corruption all must go,
The difference in this alone:
That some things rot quick and some slow.
Ay, the hard stone will wear away
Making the day when it was rock
Unreal as a distant day.
Only a Shadow none do know,
By the lock'd door of Time and Space,
With obscure and peculiar grace
Keeps watch never to go.
That brings a joy with a fear.
Oh, that Death should greater be
Than Time and Space and all we see,
That Change should deeper be than thought
And Time, like a portentous tomb,
Should feel corruption in its womb
Yet itself crumble like its rot!
For e'en the sepulchre's cold stones
Shall have a death like the dead bones
They shut in.
(What coffer can lock
Corruption out? or rottenness
What wit with cell and bolt can mock?)
Ay, even marble shall like bodies die
A death, shall have an end. The passer-by
Shall tread the dust of the stone
That on the grave did lie,
In dust now like each bone.
For to Corruption all must go,
The difference in this alone:
That some things rot quick and some slow.
Ay, the hard stone will wear away
Making the day when it was rock
Unreal as a distant day.
Only a Shadow none do know,
By the lock'd door of Time and Space,
With obscure and peculiar grace
Keeps watch never to go.
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