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THE ABYSS BETWEEN me and my consciousness Is an abyss At whose invisible botton runs The noise of a stream far from (...) Whose very sound is dark and cold – Ay, on some skin of our soul's deeming, Cold and dark and terribly old, Itself, and not in its told seeming. My hewing has become my seeing Of that placelessly sunken stream. Its noiseless noise is ever freeing My thought from my thught's power to dream. Some dread reality belongs To that stream of mute obstruct songs That speak of no reality But of its going to no sea. Lo! with the eyes of my dreamed hearing I hear the unseen river bearing Along to where it goes not to All things my thought is made of – Thought Itself, and the World, and God who On that impossible stream float. Ay, the ideas of God, of World, Of Myself and of Mystery, As from some unknown rampart hurled, Go down with that strewn to that sea It has not and shall never reach And belong to its night-bound motion. Yet oh for that sun on the beach Of that unattainable ocean!
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Fernando Pessoa
1465
Y