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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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MEN OF TO-DAY
Men of to‑day and yester's nought,
Before you were the things we see
Who gave a guess or gave a thought
That such as you to‑day should be?
Ah, passers by the common way,
Who thought of ye before to‑day?
Men of to‑day, to‑morrow's dust,
When years have past where shall ye go?
What vulgar daub or hurried lust [...]
Shall chronicle your joy and woe?
Waves on the crest of life's swift sea,
After to‑day who'll think of ye?
Genius alone can rouse the fire
That in your glorious nature lies;
Genius alone can strike the Iyre
And raise your name to mortal skies;
Genius of death can tear the pall
And yester's nought may be an all.
But virtue, fool, like human tears,
By sand of earth too surely drunk,
Sinks in the dust of passing years,
Nor knowest thou where has it sunk.
Let genius then the laurel wear;
To‑morrow's dust may live for e'er.
Before you were the things we see
Who gave a guess or gave a thought
That such as you to‑day should be?
Ah, passers by the common way,
Who thought of ye before to‑day?
Men of to‑day, to‑morrow's dust,
When years have past where shall ye go?
What vulgar daub or hurried lust [...]
Shall chronicle your joy and woe?
Waves on the crest of life's swift sea,
After to‑day who'll think of ye?
Genius alone can rouse the fire
That in your glorious nature lies;
Genius alone can strike the Iyre
And raise your name to mortal skies;
Genius of death can tear the pall
And yester's nought may be an all.
But virtue, fool, like human tears,
By sand of earth too surely drunk,
Sinks in the dust of passing years,
Nor knowest thou where has it sunk.
Let genius then the laurel wear;
To‑morrow's dust may live for e'er.
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