Author: Fernando Pessoa (b. 1888 - d. 1935)
I am the escaped one,
After I was born
They locked me up inside me
But I left.
My soul seeks me,
Through hills and valley,
I hope my soul
Never finds me.
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Posted: Jan 2015
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Author: Edgar Allan Poe (b. 1809 - d. 1849)
Here is the Portuguese translation by Fernando Pessoa (brilliant!!):
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Posted: Jan 2015
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Author: Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese (b. 1888 - d. 1935)
The other day indeed,
With my shoe, on the wall,
I killed a centipede
Which was not there at all.
How can that be?
It's very simple, you see -
Just the beginning of D. T.
When the pink alligator
And the tiger without a head
Begin to take stature
And demanded to be fed,
As I have no shoes
Fit to kill those,
I think I'll start thinking:
Should I stop drinking?
But it really doesn't matter...
Am I thinner or fatter
Because this is this?
Would I be wiser or better
If life were other than this is?
No, nothing is right.
Your love might
Make me better than I
Can be or can try.
But we never know
Darling, I don't know
If the sugar of your heart
Would not turn out candy...
So I let my heart smart
And I drink brandy.
Then the centipede come
Without trouble.
I can see them well.
Or even double.
I'll see them home
With my shoe,
And, when they all go to hell,
I'll go too.
Then, on a whole,
I shall be happy indeed,
Because, with a shoe
Real and true,
I shall kill the true centipede
My lost soul!...
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Posted: Dec 2014
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Author: Fernando Pessoa (b. 1888 - d. 1935)
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,
Not 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,
Not 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.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jan 2015
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suebitu1968 Poetry (4)