Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa (4)

When spring comes round again
I may no longer be in the world.
I would like to think that the spring is a person
So that I could imagine she would weep,
Seeing she had lost her only friend.
But the spring isn’t even a thing:
It’s a manner of speaking.
Not even the flowers come back, or the green leaves.
There are new flowers, new green leaves.
There are other sweet days.

Nothing returns, nothing is repeated, because everything is real.

(de Poemas Inconjuntos; trad. Magaret Jull Costa)

Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa (3)

This is perhaps the last day of my life.

I saluted the sun, raising my right hand, 

But I wasn't saluting it in order to say goodbye.

I was simply showing how pleased I was still to see it, nothing more.

(de Poemas Inconjuntos; trad. Margaret Jull Costa)

Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa (2)

I'm not in a hurry. In a hurry for what?
The sun and moon aren't in a hurry; they're right.
To hurry is to suppose we can overtake our legs
Or leap over our shadow.
No, I'm not in a hurry.
If I stretch out my arm, I'll reach exactly as far as my arm reaches
And not half an inch farther.
I touch where my finger touches, not where I think.
I can only sit down where I am.
This sounds ridiculous, like all absolutely true truths,
But what's really ridiculous is how we're always thinking of
    something else,
And we're always outside it, because we're here.

(de Poemas Inconjuntos; trad. Richard Zenith)

Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa

Hoje o Facebook relembra-me de um poema que partilhei neste dia há três anos.

Pouco me importa.

Pouco me importa o quê? Não sei: pouco me importa.

Alberto Caeiro tem sido talvez o Pessoa que mais atrai a minha atenção. O seu humor despretencioso não será a menor das razões.