Escritas.org
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
5648439
196
2960
BEGINNING
Darkness and storm outside make inward gloom,
Quiet and home within and useless pain
Weigh down upon me as a wasted life,
Save where from the vile tomb
Of day there comes a semblance of a strife
Through the blown varying of the pallid rain.
Before the thunder shall the mansion shake
A blankly‑smiling day informs our eyne,
And there is here a ghastness and a gale
That make my frail form quake;
And strange to me who think all things must quail,
A voice is raised in joy - alas! not mine.
Why cannot youth be joyous, full of love?
Why am I made the corpse that woes and fears
And problems grim and world‑enigmas dire
Should like a body wove
Close to my nature, in which is a fire
The feverous source of Iying pains and tears?
Blow hard, thou wind; look pale, thou awful day!
Ye cannot in your dread and horror match
The thing that I bear in me and is me,
These idle thoughts that stray
Subordinate to the deep agony
Of him who hears the gate of reason's latch
Fall with a sound of termination,
As of a thing locked past and for e'er done.
Quiet and home within and useless pain
Weigh down upon me as a wasted life,
Save where from the vile tomb
Of day there comes a semblance of a strife
Through the blown varying of the pallid rain.
Before the thunder shall the mansion shake
A blankly‑smiling day informs our eyne,
And there is here a ghastness and a gale
That make my frail form quake;
And strange to me who think all things must quail,
A voice is raised in joy - alas! not mine.
Why cannot youth be joyous, full of love?
Why am I made the corpse that woes and fears
And problems grim and world‑enigmas dire
Should like a body wove
Close to my nature, in which is a fire
The feverous source of Iying pains and tears?
Blow hard, thou wind; look pale, thou awful day!
Ye cannot in your dread and horror match
The thing that I bear in me and is me,
These idle thoughts that stray
Subordinate to the deep agony
Of him who hears the gate of reason's latch
Fall with a sound of termination,
As of a thing locked past and for e'er done.
1449
0