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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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LITTLE BIRD
Poet
Little bird, sing me a sweet song deep
Of what is not to‑day;
Be it not the future that yet doth sleep
In the hall where Time his hours doth keep,
More than far away.
Sing me a song of the things thou knew'st
And desirest e'er,
Be it a song to which but is used
The heart that has to love refused
What is merely fair.
Bird
Young, too young hither I was brought
From the dells and trees;
Weep with me - I remember them not
Save with a vague and a pining thought:
Can I sing of these?
Poet
Sing, little bird, sing me that song -
None can be more dear -
Come of the spirit that doth long
Not for the past with a sadness strong,
But for what was never here.
Sing me, sing me that song, little bird;
I would also sing
Of sounds I remember yet never heard,
Of wishes by which my soul is stirred
Till then bliss doth sting.
Bird
To breathe that singing I have no might;
Sing it deeply thou!
I sing when the day is clear and bright
And when the moon is so much in night
That thy tears do flow.
But thou, thou sing'st in woe, in ill,
And thy voice is fit
To speak of what the wish doth fill
With pinings indescribable,
Shadows vague of it.
Poet
Ay, little bird, let us sing in all weather
A song, of to‑day,
Come of the sense we feel together
That nothing that doth die and wither
Truly goes away.
Little bird, sing me a sweet song deep
Of what is not to‑day;
Be it not the future that yet doth sleep
In the hall where Time his hours doth keep,
More than far away.
Sing me a song of the things thou knew'st
And desirest e'er,
Be it a song to which but is used
The heart that has to love refused
What is merely fair.
Bird
Young, too young hither I was brought
From the dells and trees;
Weep with me - I remember them not
Save with a vague and a pining thought:
Can I sing of these?
Poet
Sing, little bird, sing me that song -
None can be more dear -
Come of the spirit that doth long
Not for the past with a sadness strong,
But for what was never here.
Sing me, sing me that song, little bird;
I would also sing
Of sounds I remember yet never heard,
Of wishes by which my soul is stirred
Till then bliss doth sting.
Bird
To breathe that singing I have no might;
Sing it deeply thou!
I sing when the day is clear and bright
And when the moon is so much in night
That thy tears do flow.
But thou, thou sing'st in woe, in ill,
And thy voice is fit
To speak of what the wish doth fill
With pinings indescribable,
Shadows vague of it.
Poet
Ay, little bird, let us sing in all weather
A song, of to‑day,
Come of the sense we feel together
That nothing that doth die and wither
Truly goes away.
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