Fernando Pessoa

Fernando Pessoa

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

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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
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I am tired, that is clear,
Because, at certain stage, people have to be tired
Of what I am tired,
I don't know:
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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
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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
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I know,
I
How much it hurts, this
With no faith nor
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The world is woven all of dream and
And but one sureness in our truth may lie--That when we hold to aught our thinking's
We know it not by knowing it thereby
For but one side of things the mirror knows,
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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;
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