Fernando Pessoa

Should somebody one day knock at your
Announcing he's an emissary of mine,
Never believe him, nor that it is I;
For to knock does not go with my vainglory,

If that apparent part of life's
Our tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were
By aught save reflex and co-carnal sight,
Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen

I have a terrible cold,
And everyone knows how terrible
Alter the whole system of the universe,
Set us against life,

Love is essential
Sex, mere accident
Can be
Or different

When I do think my meanest line shall
More in Time's use than my creating whole,
That future eyes more clearly shall feel
In this inked page than in my direct soul;

I am tired, that is clear,
Because, at certain stage, people have to be tired
Of what I am tired,
I don't know:

Whether we write or speak or do but
We are ever unapparent
What we
Cannot be transfused into word or book

But no, she's abstract, is a
Of sound in the air of air soaring,
And her soul sings
Because the song's what makes her sing

I know,
I
How much it hurts, this
With no faith nor

When I am sitting at the window,
Through the panes, which the snow blurs,
I see the lovely images, hers,
She passes… passes… passes by…Over me grief has thrown its veil:-Less a creature in this

Hate you,
Christ,
I do not, or seek
I

If, after I die, they should want to write my biography,
There's nothing simpler
I've just two dates - of my birth, and of my death
In between the one thing and the other all the days aremine