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Fernando Pessoa
MEANTIME
MEANTIME
Far away, far away,
Far away from here...
There is no worry after joy
Or away from fear
Far away from here.
Her lips were not very red,
Nor her hair quite gold.
Her hands played with rings.
She did not let me hold
Her hands playing with gold.
She is something past,
Far away from pain.
Joy can touch her not, nor hope
Enter her domain,
Neither love in vain.
Perhaps at some day beyond
Shadows and light
She will think of me and make
All me a delight
All away from sight.
Far away, far away,
Far away from here...
There is no worry after joy
Or away from fear
Far away from here.
Her lips were not very red,
Nor her hair quite gold.
Her hands played with rings.
She did not let me hold
Her hands playing with gold.
She is something past,
Far away from pain.
Joy can touch her not, nor hope
Enter her domain,
Neither love in vain.
Perhaps at some day beyond
Shadows and light
She will think of me and make
All me a delight
All away from sight.
5 045
Fernando Pessoa
24 - EPISODE
EPISODE
No matter what we dream,
What we dream is true.
No matter what doth seem,
God doth it view
And therefore it is
Real as all this.
No matter what we wish,
We have it elsewhere,
Now, e'er now and rich
Are we here of there.
Inside our felt I
God we self-descry.
Sometimes I think hope
May make this come true,
But I stop, I grope,
And life, fear and woe
Is all that remains.
Wherefore then these pains,
This unrest that thrills
With a possible joy,
All the pain that fills
Our hope till it cloy?
Wherefore this, wherefore
If all is unsure?
O give me a breeze
On a meadow land,
And let that breeze please
Nor I understand.
For all anguish is
A vague wish for bliss.
No matter what we dream,
What we dream is true.
No matter what doth seem,
God doth it view
And therefore it is
Real as all this.
No matter what we wish,
We have it elsewhere,
Now, e'er now and rich
Are we here of there.
Inside our felt I
God we self-descry.
Sometimes I think hope
May make this come true,
But I stop, I grope,
And life, fear and woe
Is all that remains.
Wherefore then these pains,
This unrest that thrills
With a possible joy,
All the pain that fills
Our hope till it cloy?
Wherefore this, wherefore
If all is unsure?
O give me a breeze
On a meadow land,
And let that breeze please
Nor I understand.
For all anguish is
A vague wish for bliss.
4 079
Fernando Pessoa
Ship sailing out to sea,
Ship sailing out to sea,
If thou canst not take me,
Take ar least with thy hope
Of other ports my misery
And what in me doth grope.
Ship sailing far away
Let me dream thou canst go
Where I at last may
No longer live with woe
Or with grief stay.
Ship sailing out to Death
Go far, go far
Under the breath
Of the wind, while the star
Of Fate listeneth.
Ship that are not anywhere,
But that I dream,
That is why you art fair.
Sail or sail not... Seem
To sail. That is all. Where?
Ship that I dream and fades
In my dreams distance, go
There are happier glades
Beyond where I know
But this is today and woe.
22/07/1916
If thou canst not take me,
Take ar least with thy hope
Of other ports my misery
And what in me doth grope.
Ship sailing far away
Let me dream thou canst go
Where I at last may
No longer live with woe
Or with grief stay.
Ship sailing out to Death
Go far, go far
Under the breath
Of the wind, while the star
Of Fate listeneth.
Ship that are not anywhere,
But that I dream,
That is why you art fair.
Sail or sail not... Seem
To sail. That is all. Where?
Ship that I dream and fades
In my dreams distance, go
There are happier glades
Beyond where I know
But this is today and woe.
22/07/1916
4 526
Bocage
O poeta asseteado por amor
Ó Céus! Que sinto nalma! Que tormento!
Que repentino frenesi me anseia!
Que veneno a ferver de veia em veia
Me gasta a vida, me desfaz o alento!
Tal era, doce amada, o meu lamento;
Eis que esse deus, que em prantos se recreia,
Me diz: <Contemplar Ursulina um só momento!
>>Insano! Eu bem te vi dentre a luz pura
De seus olhos travessos, e cum tiro
Puni tua sacrílega loucura:
>>De morte, por piedade hoje te firo;
Vai pois, vai merecer na sepultura
À tua linda ingrata algum suspiro.>>
Que repentino frenesi me anseia!
Que veneno a ferver de veia em veia
Me gasta a vida, me desfaz o alento!
Tal era, doce amada, o meu lamento;
Eis que esse deus, que em prantos se recreia,
Me diz: <Contemplar Ursulina um só momento!
>>Insano! Eu bem te vi dentre a luz pura
De seus olhos travessos, e cum tiro
Puni tua sacrílega loucura:
>>De morte, por piedade hoje te firo;
Vai pois, vai merecer na sepultura
À tua linda ingrata algum suspiro.>>
2 207
Celso Emilio Ferreiro
Longa noite de pedra
O teito é de pedra.
De pedra son os muros
i as tebras.
De pedra o chan
i as reixas.
As portas,
as cadeas,
o aire,
as fenestras,
as olladas,
son de pedra.
Os corazós dos homes
que ao lonxe espreitan
feitos están
tamén
de pedra.
I eu, morrendo
nesta longa noite
de pedra.
De pedra son os muros
i as tebras.
De pedra o chan
i as reixas.
As portas,
as cadeas,
o aire,
as fenestras,
as olladas,
son de pedra.
Os corazós dos homes
que ao lonxe espreitan
feitos están
tamén
de pedra.
I eu, morrendo
nesta longa noite
de pedra.
1 715
Gil Vicente
Assi como foi cousa
Assi como foi cousa muito necessária haver nos caminhos estalagens, pera repouso e refeição dos cansados caminhantes, assi foi cousa conveniente que nesta caminhante vida houvesse uma estalajadeira, pera refeição e descanso das almas que vão caminhantes pera a eternal morada de Deus. Esta estalajadeira das almas é a Madre Santa Igreja, a mesa é o altar, os manjares as insígnias da Paixão. E desta perfiguração trata a obra seguinte.
Figuras: Alma, Anjo Custódio, Igreja, Santo Agostinho, Santo Ambrósio, S. Jerónimo, S. Tomás, Dous Diabos.
Este Auto presente foi feito à muito devota Rainha D.#Leonor e representado ao mui poderoso e nobre Rei Dom#Emanuel, seu irmão, por seu mandado, na cidade de Lisboa, nos Paços da Ribeira, em a noite de Endoenças. Era do Senhor de 1518.
Está posta uma mesa com uma cadeira. Vem a Madre Santa Igreja com seus quatro doutores: S.#Tomás, S.#Jerónimo, Santo#Ambrósio e Santo#Agostinho. E diz Agostinho:
AGOSTINHO Necessário foi, amigos,
que nesta triste carreira
desta vida,
pera os mui p'rigosos p'rigos
dos imigos,
houvesse alguma maneira
de guarida.
Porque a humana transitória
natureza vai cansada
em várias calmas;
nesta carreira da glória
meritória,
foi necessário pousada
pera as almas.
Pousada com mantimentos,
mesa posta em clara luz,
sempre esperando
com dobrados mantimentos
dos tormentos
que o Filho de Deus, na Cruz,
comprou, penando.
Sua morte foi avença,
dando, por dar-nos paraíso,
a sua vida
apreçada, sem detença,
por sentença,
julgada a paga em proviso,
e recebida.
A Sua mortal empresa
foi santa estalajadeira
Igreja Madre:
consolar à sua despesa,
nesta mesa,
qualquer alma caminheira,
com o Padre
e o Anjo Custódio aio.
Alma que lhe é encomendada,
se enfraquece
e lhe vai tomando raio
de desmaio,
se chegando a esta pousada,
se guarece.
Vem o Anjo Custódio, com a Alma, e diz:
ANJO Alma humana, formada
de nenhüa cousa feita,
mui preciosa,
de corrupção separada,
e esmaltada
naquela frágoa perfeita,
gloriosa!
Planta neste vale posta
pera dar celestes flores
olorosas,
e pera serdes tresposta
em a alta costa,
onde se criam primores
mais que rosas!
Planta sois e caminheira,
que ainda que estais, vos is
donde viestes.
Vossa pátria verdadeira
é ser herdei
da glória que conseguis:
andai prestes.
Alma bem-aventurada,
dos anjos tanto querida,
não durmais!
Um ponto não esteis parada,
que a jornada
muito em breve é fenecida,
se atentais.
ALMA Anjo que sois minha guarda,
olhai por minha fraqueza
terreal!
de toda a parte haja resguarda,
que não arda
a minha preciosa riqueza
principal.
Cercai-me sempre ò redor
porque vou mui temerosa
de contenda.
Ó precioso defensor
meu favor!
Vossa espada lumiosa
me defenda!
Tende sempre mão em mim,
porque hei medo de empeçar,
e de cair
ANJO Pera isso sam e a isso vim;
mas enfim,
cumpre-vos de me ajudar
a resistir
Não vos ocupem vaidades,
riquezas, nem seus debates.
Olhai por vós;
que pompas, honras, herdades
e vaidades,
são embates e combates
pera vós.
Vosso livre alvedrio,
isento, forro, poderoso
vos é dado
polo divinal poderio
e senhorio,
que possais fazer glorioso
vosso estado.
Deu-vos livre entendimento,
e vontade libertada
e a memória,
que tenhais em vosso tento
fundamento,
que sois por Ele criada
pera a glória.
E vendo Deus que o metal
em que vos pôs a estilar,
pera merecer,
que era muito fraco e mortal,
e, por tal,
me manda a vos ajudar
e defender.
Andemos a estrada nossa;
olhai: não torneis atrás,
que o imigo
à vossa vida gloriosa
porá grosa,
Não creiais a Satanás,
vosso perigo!
Continuai ter o cuidado
no fim de vossa jornada,
e a memória,
que o espírito atalaiado
do pecado
caminha sem temer nada
pera a Glória.
E nos laços infernais,
e nas redes de tristura
tenebrosas
da carreira, que passais,
não caiais:
siga vossa fermosura
as gloriosas.
Adianta-se o Anjo, e vem o Diabo a ela e diz:
DIABO Tão depressa, ó delicada,
alva pomba, pera onde isso?
Quem vos engana,
e vos leva tão cansada
por estrada,
que somente não sentis
se sois humana?
Não cureis de vos matar
que ainda estais em idade
de crecer
Tempo há i pera folgar
e caminhar
Vivei à vossa vontade
e havei prazer.
Gozai, gozai dos bens da terra,
Procurai por senhorios
e haveres.
Quem da vida vos desterra
à triste serra?
Quem vos fala em desvarios
por prazeres?
Esta vida é descanso,
doce e manso,
não cureis doutro paraíso.
Quem vos põe em vosso siso
outro remanso?
ALMA Não me detenhais aqui,
leixai-me ir que em al me fundo.
DIABO Oh! Descansai neste mundo
que todos fazem assi:
Não são em#balde os haveres.
não são em balde os deleites,
e fortunas;
não são debalde os prazeres
e comeres:
tudo são puros afeites
das criaturas:
Pera os homens se criaram.
Dai folga à vossa passagem
d'hoje a mais:
descansai, pois descansaram
os que passaram
por esta mesma romagem
que levais.
O que a vontade quiser
quanto o corpo desejar,
tudo se faça.
Zombai de quem vos quiser
reprender
querendo-vos marteirar
tão de graça.
Tornara-me, se a vós fora.
Is tão triste, atribulada,
que é tormenta.
Senhora, vós sois senhora
emperadora,
não deveis a ninguém nada.
Sede isenta.
ANJO Oh! andai; quem vos detém?
Como vindes pera a Glória
devagar!
Ó meu Deus! Ó sumo bem!
Já ninguém
não se preza da vitória
em se salvar!
Já cansais, alma preciosa?
Tão asinha desmaiais?
Sede esforçada!
Oh! Como viríeis trigosa
e desejosa,
se vísseis quanto ganhais
nesta jornada!
Caminhemos, caminhemos.
Esforçai ora, Alma santa,
esclarecida!
Adianta-se o Anjo, e torna Satanás:
DIABO Que vaidades e que extremos
tão supremos!
Pera que é essa pressa tanta?
tende vida.
Is muito desautorizada,
descalça, pobre, perdida,
de remate:
Figuras: Alma, Anjo Custódio, Igreja, Santo Agostinho, Santo Ambrósio, S. Jerónimo, S. Tomás, Dous Diabos.
Este Auto presente foi feito à muito devota Rainha D.#Leonor e representado ao mui poderoso e nobre Rei Dom#Emanuel, seu irmão, por seu mandado, na cidade de Lisboa, nos Paços da Ribeira, em a noite de Endoenças. Era do Senhor de 1518.
Está posta uma mesa com uma cadeira. Vem a Madre Santa Igreja com seus quatro doutores: S.#Tomás, S.#Jerónimo, Santo#Ambrósio e Santo#Agostinho. E diz Agostinho:
AGOSTINHO Necessário foi, amigos,
que nesta triste carreira
desta vida,
pera os mui p'rigosos p'rigos
dos imigos,
houvesse alguma maneira
de guarida.
Porque a humana transitória
natureza vai cansada
em várias calmas;
nesta carreira da glória
meritória,
foi necessário pousada
pera as almas.
Pousada com mantimentos,
mesa posta em clara luz,
sempre esperando
com dobrados mantimentos
dos tormentos
que o Filho de Deus, na Cruz,
comprou, penando.
Sua morte foi avença,
dando, por dar-nos paraíso,
a sua vida
apreçada, sem detença,
por sentença,
julgada a paga em proviso,
e recebida.
A Sua mortal empresa
foi santa estalajadeira
Igreja Madre:
consolar à sua despesa,
nesta mesa,
qualquer alma caminheira,
com o Padre
e o Anjo Custódio aio.
Alma que lhe é encomendada,
se enfraquece
e lhe vai tomando raio
de desmaio,
se chegando a esta pousada,
se guarece.
Vem o Anjo Custódio, com a Alma, e diz:
ANJO Alma humana, formada
de nenhüa cousa feita,
mui preciosa,
de corrupção separada,
e esmaltada
naquela frágoa perfeita,
gloriosa!
Planta neste vale posta
pera dar celestes flores
olorosas,
e pera serdes tresposta
em a alta costa,
onde se criam primores
mais que rosas!
Planta sois e caminheira,
que ainda que estais, vos is
donde viestes.
Vossa pátria verdadeira
é ser herdei
da glória que conseguis:
andai prestes.
Alma bem-aventurada,
dos anjos tanto querida,
não durmais!
Um ponto não esteis parada,
que a jornada
muito em breve é fenecida,
se atentais.
ALMA Anjo que sois minha guarda,
olhai por minha fraqueza
terreal!
de toda a parte haja resguarda,
que não arda
a minha preciosa riqueza
principal.
Cercai-me sempre ò redor
porque vou mui temerosa
de contenda.
Ó precioso defensor
meu favor!
Vossa espada lumiosa
me defenda!
Tende sempre mão em mim,
porque hei medo de empeçar,
e de cair
ANJO Pera isso sam e a isso vim;
mas enfim,
cumpre-vos de me ajudar
a resistir
Não vos ocupem vaidades,
riquezas, nem seus debates.
Olhai por vós;
que pompas, honras, herdades
e vaidades,
são embates e combates
pera vós.
Vosso livre alvedrio,
isento, forro, poderoso
vos é dado
polo divinal poderio
e senhorio,
que possais fazer glorioso
vosso estado.
Deu-vos livre entendimento,
e vontade libertada
e a memória,
que tenhais em vosso tento
fundamento,
que sois por Ele criada
pera a glória.
E vendo Deus que o metal
em que vos pôs a estilar,
pera merecer,
que era muito fraco e mortal,
e, por tal,
me manda a vos ajudar
e defender.
Andemos a estrada nossa;
olhai: não torneis atrás,
que o imigo
à vossa vida gloriosa
porá grosa,
Não creiais a Satanás,
vosso perigo!
Continuai ter o cuidado
no fim de vossa jornada,
e a memória,
que o espírito atalaiado
do pecado
caminha sem temer nada
pera a Glória.
E nos laços infernais,
e nas redes de tristura
tenebrosas
da carreira, que passais,
não caiais:
siga vossa fermosura
as gloriosas.
Adianta-se o Anjo, e vem o Diabo a ela e diz:
DIABO Tão depressa, ó delicada,
alva pomba, pera onde isso?
Quem vos engana,
e vos leva tão cansada
por estrada,
que somente não sentis
se sois humana?
Não cureis de vos matar
que ainda estais em idade
de crecer
Tempo há i pera folgar
e caminhar
Vivei à vossa vontade
e havei prazer.
Gozai, gozai dos bens da terra,
Procurai por senhorios
e haveres.
Quem da vida vos desterra
à triste serra?
Quem vos fala em desvarios
por prazeres?
Esta vida é descanso,
doce e manso,
não cureis doutro paraíso.
Quem vos põe em vosso siso
outro remanso?
ALMA Não me detenhais aqui,
leixai-me ir que em al me fundo.
DIABO Oh! Descansai neste mundo
que todos fazem assi:
Não são em#balde os haveres.
não são em balde os deleites,
e fortunas;
não são debalde os prazeres
e comeres:
tudo são puros afeites
das criaturas:
Pera os homens se criaram.
Dai folga à vossa passagem
d'hoje a mais:
descansai, pois descansaram
os que passaram
por esta mesma romagem
que levais.
O que a vontade quiser
quanto o corpo desejar,
tudo se faça.
Zombai de quem vos quiser
reprender
querendo-vos marteirar
tão de graça.
Tornara-me, se a vós fora.
Is tão triste, atribulada,
que é tormenta.
Senhora, vós sois senhora
emperadora,
não deveis a ninguém nada.
Sede isenta.
ANJO Oh! andai; quem vos detém?
Como vindes pera a Glória
devagar!
Ó meu Deus! Ó sumo bem!
Já ninguém
não se preza da vitória
em se salvar!
Já cansais, alma preciosa?
Tão asinha desmaiais?
Sede esforçada!
Oh! Como viríeis trigosa
e desejosa,
se vísseis quanto ganhais
nesta jornada!
Caminhemos, caminhemos.
Esforçai ora, Alma santa,
esclarecida!
Adianta-se o Anjo, e torna Satanás:
DIABO Que vaidades e que extremos
tão supremos!
Pera que é essa pressa tanta?
tende vida.
Is muito desautorizada,
descalça, pobre, perdida,
de remate:
1 676
Fernando Pessoa
Mother of things impossible,
Mother of things impossible,
Sister of what can never be,
Thou whose closed lips will never tell
The words whose lack is misery
Sit by my side while I ignore.
Smile by my ignorance of thee,
And my lost solitude restore.
O life is sad as things unwilled,
Love is the day that never comes
To those blind as my soul, and filled
With that presade of coming drums
When the city shall fall, that haunts
The inner vision whose night hums
In us while death startingly chaunts.
O interpret my soul to me!
Give me no truth, no sight, no road,
But take from me the misery
Of conciousness and the unseen goal
Of seeking ever what doth seem.
Lighten with being-near my load!
O let me hold thy hand and dream!
22/07/1916
Sister of what can never be,
Thou whose closed lips will never tell
The words whose lack is misery
Sit by my side while I ignore.
Smile by my ignorance of thee,
And my lost solitude restore.
O life is sad as things unwilled,
Love is the day that never comes
To those blind as my soul, and filled
With that presade of coming drums
When the city shall fall, that haunts
The inner vision whose night hums
In us while death startingly chaunts.
O interpret my soul to me!
Give me no truth, no sight, no road,
But take from me the misery
Of conciousness and the unseen goal
Of seeking ever what doth seem.
Lighten with being-near my load!
O let me hold thy hand and dream!
22/07/1916
4 461
Fernando Pessoa
HEART-MUSIC
HEART-MUSIC
Learning almost upon thy breast
I heard thy heart's life – made unrest...
And thy heart's beating has a sound
that reminds me of aught I heard long ago,
Long before this life, but what
I do not know, I do not know...
'Twas something going round and round
Something of terrible and of strange
That even now doth shake my soul.
I strive to remember – I fail, I fail
The unmemoried memory doth shake my soul.
'Twas something terrible and strange,
Going round and going round,
And it had a sound like thy heart's beat...
The memory hangs on my soul's darkness
But notion from my mind went round and round
And now thy heart – hath such a sound.
Alexander Search
December 1905
Learning almost upon thy breast
I heard thy heart's life – made unrest...
And thy heart's beating has a sound
that reminds me of aught I heard long ago,
Long before this life, but what
I do not know, I do not know...
'Twas something going round and round
Something of terrible and of strange
That even now doth shake my soul.
I strive to remember – I fail, I fail
The unmemoried memory doth shake my soul.
'Twas something terrible and strange,
Going round and going round,
And it had a sound like thy heart's beat...
The memory hangs on my soul's darkness
But notion from my mind went round and round
And now thy heart – hath such a sound.
Alexander Search
December 1905
4 383
Fernando Pessoa
HEART-MUSIC
HEART-MUSIC
Learning almost upon thy breast
I heard thy heart's life – made unrest...
And thy heart's beating has a sound
that reminds me of aught I heard long ago,
Long before this life, but what
I do not know, I do not know...
'Twas something going round and round
Something of terrible and of strange
That even now doth shake my soul.
I strive to remember – I fail, I fail
The unmemoried memory doth shake my soul.
'Twas something terrible and strange,
Going round and going round,
And it had a sound like thy heart's beat...
The memory hangs on my soul's darkness
But notion from my mind went round and round
And now thy heart – hath such a sound.
Alexander Search
December 1905
Learning almost upon thy breast
I heard thy heart's life – made unrest...
And thy heart's beating has a sound
that reminds me of aught I heard long ago,
Long before this life, but what
I do not know, I do not know...
'Twas something going round and round
Something of terrible and of strange
That even now doth shake my soul.
I strive to remember – I fail, I fail
The unmemoried memory doth shake my soul.
'Twas something terrible and strange,
Going round and going round,
And it had a sound like thy heart's beat...
The memory hangs on my soul's darkness
But notion from my mind went round and round
And now thy heart – hath such a sound.
Alexander Search
December 1905
4 383
Fernando Pessoa
19 - EMPTINESS
EMPTINESS
The day sickens into the lake
The colour that its pallor wears.
A loss of outline overtakes
The landscape, and the horizon bears
Like a defeated flag the dim
Purposelessness of its dead rim.
Let my heart forsake everything.
I shall be richer by all I.
Every breath, each passing wing
Takes me from myself. The whole sky
Eats into my self-consciousness
And detracts from my true distress.
For my true sorrow is not that
The day is sad as I am sad,
But that no moment can abate
The pain that I but pain have had
To take with me and see and feel
While life goes by like a mere wheel.
No: vaguer things than skies and plains
Are dark and lowered o'er in me;
My sorrows are more empty pains
Than of which plains can symbols be;
And my void weight of life and self
Resembles nothing but itself.
The day sickens into the lake
The colour that its pallor wears.
A loss of outline overtakes
The landscape, and the horizon bears
Like a defeated flag the dim
Purposelessness of its dead rim.
Let my heart forsake everything.
I shall be richer by all I.
Every breath, each passing wing
Takes me from myself. The whole sky
Eats into my self-consciousness
And detracts from my true distress.
For my true sorrow is not that
The day is sad as I am sad,
But that no moment can abate
The pain that I but pain have had
To take with me and see and feel
While life goes by like a mere wheel.
No: vaguer things than skies and plains
Are dark and lowered o'er in me;
My sorrows are more empty pains
Than of which plains can symbols be;
And my void weight of life and self
Resembles nothing but itself.
4 540
Charles Baudelaire
O fim da jornada
Sob uma luz trêmula e baça,
Se agita, brinca e dança ao léu
A Vida, ululante e devassa.
Assim também, quando no céu
A noite voluptuosa sonha,
Tudo acalmando, mesmo a fome,
Tudo apagando, até a vergonha,
Diz o Poeta que a dor consome:
"Afinal, minha alma e meus ossos
Finalmente imploram por sossego;
O coração feito em destroços,
Procuro em meu leito aconchego
E às vossas cortinas me apego,
Ó treva oferta aos corpos nossos.
Se agita, brinca e dança ao léu
A Vida, ululante e devassa.
Assim também, quando no céu
A noite voluptuosa sonha,
Tudo acalmando, mesmo a fome,
Tudo apagando, até a vergonha,
Diz o Poeta que a dor consome:
"Afinal, minha alma e meus ossos
Finalmente imploram por sossego;
O coração feito em destroços,
Procuro em meu leito aconchego
E às vossas cortinas me apego,
Ó treva oferta aos corpos nossos.
3 539
Otávio Ramos
YANG
Minha música se mostra, avança
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
979
Otávio Ramos
YANG
Minha música se mostra, avança
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
979
Otávio Ramos
YANG
Minha música se mostra, avança
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
979
Otávio Ramos
YANG
Minha música se mostra, avança
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
serena feito vaca mansa.
Este som, rockn roll
estandarte que tremula ao sol.
Este som, escarlate
pedra que brilha, quilate.
Mas é só uma canção
para aquecer seu coração.
Já conheço essa minha guitarra
arma, bomba, cimitarra.
Me conheço, sem eira nem beira.
Poesia, última trincheira.
Minha música, cor quente
eu quero é pratear sua mente.
Novamente.
Eu quero é pratear sua mente.
979
Fernando Pessoa
APPROACHING
APPROACHING
With dragging steps severe, like creeping hate,
Through the black silence of my conscious brain
I hear madness advance, and feel with pain
The ground it treads on writhe and palpitate.
How to avoid its coming soon or late
How not to feel the mind’s grand vainly strain,
But rooted lie awaiting its dread reign
That cometh inopposable as fate?
If only madness came as lightning doth –
Suddenly – that were the least greatest ill...
But oh! to feel with consciousness’ clear sight
Reason’s day go to twilight in swift growth,
And the twilight of reason, pale and chill,
Darken towards impenetrable night.
Alexander Search, 23/03/1909
With dragging steps severe, like creeping hate,
Through the black silence of my conscious brain
I hear madness advance, and feel with pain
The ground it treads on writhe and palpitate.
How to avoid its coming soon or late
How not to feel the mind’s grand vainly strain,
But rooted lie awaiting its dread reign
That cometh inopposable as fate?
If only madness came as lightning doth –
Suddenly – that were the least greatest ill...
But oh! to feel with consciousness’ clear sight
Reason’s day go to twilight in swift growth,
And the twilight of reason, pale and chill,
Darken towards impenetrable night.
Alexander Search, 23/03/1909
4 285
Fernando Pessoa
32 - HER FINGERS TOYED ABSENTLY WITH HER RINGS
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
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
8 539
Fernando Pessoa
32 - HER FINGERS TOYED ABSENTLY WITH HER RINGS
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
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
8 539
Fernando Pessoa
32 - HER FINGERS TOYED ABSENTLY WITH HER RINGS
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
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
8 539
Fernando Pessoa
32 - HER FINGERS TOYED ABSENTLY WITH HER RINGS
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
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
8 539
Fernando Pessoa
27 - THE BROKEN WINDOW
THE BROKEN WINDOW
My heart is silent as a look.
There is a home beyond the hills.
My heart is silent as a look.
My home is there, beyond the hills.
I bear my heart like an old curse.
There is no reason for regret.
I bear my heart like an old curse.
Why should we reason or regret?
My heart dwells in me like a ghost.
Beyond the hills my hope lies dead.
My heart dwells with me like a ghost.
Beyond my hope the hills lie dead.
They took away my heart like weeds.
It was not true that I should live.
They took away my heart like weeds.
I could not think it true to live.
Now there are great stains in my heart.
They are like blood-stains on a floor.
Now there are great stains in my heart.
And my heart lies upon the floor.
The room is closed for ever now.
My heart is now buried alive.
My heart is closed for ever now.
The whole room is buried alive.
My heart is silent as a look.
There is a home beyond the hills.
My heart is silent as a look.
My home is there, beyond the hills.
I bear my heart like an old curse.
There is no reason for regret.
I bear my heart like an old curse.
Why should we reason or regret?
My heart dwells in me like a ghost.
Beyond the hills my hope lies dead.
My heart dwells with me like a ghost.
Beyond my hope the hills lie dead.
They took away my heart like weeds.
It was not true that I should live.
They took away my heart like weeds.
I could not think it true to live.
Now there are great stains in my heart.
They are like blood-stains on a floor.
Now there are great stains in my heart.
And my heart lies upon the floor.
The room is closed for ever now.
My heart is now buried alive.
My heart is closed for ever now.
The whole room is buried alive.
4 780
Fernando Pessoa
ON AN ANKLE
ON AN ANKLE
A SONNET BEARING THE IMPRIMATUR
OF THE INQUISITOR-GENERAL
AND OTHER PEOPLE OF DISTINCTION AND DECENCY
I had a revelation not from high,
But from below, when thy skirt awhile lifted
Betrayed such promise that I am not gifted
With words that may that view well signify.
And even if my verse that thing would try,
Hard were it, if that work came to be sifted,
To find a word that rude would not have shifted
There from the cold hand of Morality.
To gaze is nought; mere sight no mind hath wrecked.
But oh! sweet lady, beyond what is seen
What things may guess or hint at Disrespect?!
Sacred is not the beauty of a queen...
I from thine ankle did as much suspect
As you from this may suspect what I mean.
A SONNET BEARING THE IMPRIMATUR
OF THE INQUISITOR-GENERAL
AND OTHER PEOPLE OF DISTINCTION AND DECENCY
I had a revelation not from high,
But from below, when thy skirt awhile lifted
Betrayed such promise that I am not gifted
With words that may that view well signify.
And even if my verse that thing would try,
Hard were it, if that work came to be sifted,
To find a word that rude would not have shifted
There from the cold hand of Morality.
To gaze is nought; mere sight no mind hath wrecked.
But oh! sweet lady, beyond what is seen
What things may guess or hint at Disrespect?!
Sacred is not the beauty of a queen...
I from thine ankle did as much suspect
As you from this may suspect what I mean.
4 602
Fernando Pessoa
When shall we rest?
When shall we rest?
The ceaseless waves
They have no quest.
The trees peace-ripe.
Their lifeless life
From sorrow saves.
When shall we go?
Wither? We care
Nothing to know.
Sorrow is here.
Aught may us cheer
Now of dim there.
What in us shall
Cease and leave peace?
Life holds in thrall
Our joy like pain,
Our loss-like gain,
Our stayed release.
Love cannot bless.
Bliss cannot live.
Joy's short caress
Passes like wind
Suddenly thinned
We dream and grieve.
Outward from us
There lies the land
Less luminous,
Where we may rest,
Leaving all quest,
Wishing no strand.
Ready the bark
For our repose.
Let us embark.
The sea is lone?
We are alone,
Pain but pain shows.
Remember nought.
Cease like a light
Suddenly not.
Merge like a dream
Into the stream
Of its own night.
25/04/1917
The ceaseless waves
They have no quest.
The trees peace-ripe.
Their lifeless life
From sorrow saves.
When shall we go?
Wither? We care
Nothing to know.
Sorrow is here.
Aught may us cheer
Now of dim there.
What in us shall
Cease and leave peace?
Life holds in thrall
Our joy like pain,
Our loss-like gain,
Our stayed release.
Love cannot bless.
Bliss cannot live.
Joy's short caress
Passes like wind
Suddenly thinned
We dream and grieve.
Outward from us
There lies the land
Less luminous,
Where we may rest,
Leaving all quest,
Wishing no strand.
Ready the bark
For our repose.
Let us embark.
The sea is lone?
We are alone,
Pain but pain shows.
Remember nought.
Cease like a light
Suddenly not.
Merge like a dream
Into the stream
Of its own night.
25/04/1917
4 507
