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A SENSATIONIST POEM Her fingers toyed absently with her rings There are fallen angels in the way you look And great bridges over silent streams in your smile. Your gestures are a lonely princess dreaming over a book At a windows over a lake, on some distant isle. If I were to stretch my hand and touch your that would be Dawn behind the turrets of a city in some East. The words hidden in my gesture would be moon light on the sea Of your being something in my soul like gaiety in a feast Let your silence tell me of the numberless dreams that are you, Let the drooping of your eyelids veil landscapes that are you, I ask no more than that you should come into my dreams and be true To the wider seas within me and my inner eternal day. Blossoms, blossoms, blossoms along the road of your going to speak. Eighteenth century gardens, so sad in the middle of our dreaming them now, Are the way you are conscious of yourself on your eyelids, by your lips, through your cheek. O the road to Nowhere all for us and we there and a new God this to allow! Do not scatter the silence that is the palace where our consciousness Is now living at unity our duplicate lives of one soul. What are we, in our dream of each other, but a picture which is The masterpiece of a painter that never painted at all? 1916
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Fernando Pessoa
1448
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