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DESOLATION Here where the rugged hills Their gnarled loose bases grip into the earth, And nothing save the sorrow of our birth From seeing the seeing spirit fills, Here where, among the grim, deserted stones, Na hope of green for desertness atones, Or water's sound Make sweet the solitude around, Here may I lay This day My head Upon the ground and say No better bed Can he who has but himself for life have, Nor better grave. The sterile part Of love, feeling, was given me. Fom the humanness even of a broken heart God set me free. Out of my destiny no flower was made To grow. All in me fated was not even to fade Or e'en a vain and transient glory show. The very need For love or joy or the human part of thought, Pride, and the abstract greed For truth, that lifts the heart and doth allot A value of self and world to consciousness – Even this bliss My empty heart has not. O weary born, Faded begun. Gone from unseen shores to seen shores forlorn, Sent out of sun-gone unto unborn sun! The singer of his wish To sing no song, The poor spendthrift rich With knowing not fo, what to long. The Hyperion dispossessed Ere birth Of that sun-mansion set out beyond rest Above the wide-lit stretches of the earth. The uncrowned king That never saw the land Of which he oft doth sing, And whose lost path he cannot understand Nor know to dream steps him there to bring. The priest deferred From the inner shrine. The thought but never uttered word, The fore spilt wine, The anxiousness for hope, the cold divine Of anguish that no anguish human is, The solitary pine On the cold hill of consciousness. The hour The lord Returns Back to the polluted bower, Home to the intransitable ford, Again to the ice-padlocked burns: The shadow Fixedly thrown On the green meadow By a tree overgrown With leaves, but fruitless, flowerless and lone. The last Sight of a shore Which the unhalting ship doth pass And where it never shall pass more; But where the heart-dim sailor knows Homes are happy because not his, Lips warm because never his lips to kiss, Gardens fair because therein grows The unfound rose, Hours soft, fate fresh, life a real fair elf Because somewhere outside himself. 16/10/1916
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Fernando Pessoa
1464
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