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Selected Poems of Fernando Pessoa
Shepherd in love
The shepherd in love lost his shepherd's stick,
His flock wandered up the hillside,
Immersed in his thoughts, he could not even play the flute he carried with him.
No one came to him or left him. He could no longer find his shepherd's stick.
The others cursed him and gathered the flock together.
In the end, no one loved him.
When he rose from the hillside and the false truth, he saw everything:
The huge valley is filled with the same green as usual,
The tall and distant mountains are more real than any feeling,
All the truth, with the sky, the atmosphere and the pastures,
With a hint of pain, he felt the atmosphere reopen the freedom in his chest.
I got off the train
I got off the train
Say goodbye to the guy I met.
We spent eighteen hours together
Talk very happily,
Friends on the go,
It's a shame I had to get off the train and I had to leave
This casual friend, whose name I have never remembered.
I felt my eyes filled with tears...
Every goodbye is a death.
Yes, every goodbye is a death.
On the train we call life
We are all accidents that happen to others,
When we say goodbye, we always feel regrets.
Everything about human nature strikes me because I'm human.
Everything about human nature strikes me, not because
I have a kinship with people's ideas or doctrines
It's because of my infinite relationship with human nature itself.
The weeping maid,
With nostalgia
Leave the house where she was abused
All this, in my heart, is the sadness of death and the world,
All this, because of death, lives in my heart.
And my heart is slightly larger than the whole universe.
The desert is great, everything is desert
The desert is great, everything is desert.
Bricks were laid on stones weighing several tons,
Nothing can hide the ground, the ground is everything.
The desert is great, the soul is the desert, so great—
It's deserts, because they can only be crossed by themselves,
Great because you can see everything from there, everything that dies.
The desert is great, my soul!
The desert is great.
I never bought a ticket to life.
I missed the door to feeling.
There is not a single wish or opportunity that I have not lost.
Today, I have nothing, on the eve of the trip,
The suitcase is wide open, waiting for me to pack,
And I was sitting in a chair, and a bunch of shirts couldn't fit in.
Today, I have nothing (except the discomfort of sitting here)
Just know:
Life is great, life is not worth living.
I'm going to pack my bags, I tend to think
Instead of cleaning it up with illusory hands (I'm clear enough),
To postpone the trip, I lit a cigarette.
Postpone all trips,
Postpone the entire universe.
Come back tomorrow, reality!
That's it for today, guys!
Postpone it, absolutely now!
It is best not to.
Buy some chocolates for the kid I accidentally replaced.
Take apart the sugar paper, because it will always be tomorrow.
But I have to pack my bags,
I do have to pack my bags.
luggage.
I can't carry a shirt with assumptions, carry luggage with reason.
Yes, packing has been throughout my life.
And, all my life I've been sitting in a corner with a bunch of shirts,
Like a bull who never became Epis, ruminating on fate.
I had to pack my bags.
I have to be there in packing.
Soot fell on a mountain of shirts.
I glanced at it and found myself asleep.
All I knew was that I had to pack my bags.
The desert is great, everything is the desert,
There are also allegories about it all, but I have long forgotten it.
Suddenly, I stood up like all Caesars.
I will pack my bags once and for all.
, I'm going to pack my bags and close my suitcases;
I'm going to watch them drag it away from here;
I will stand on my own without it.
The desert is great, everything is the desert —
Unless I'm mistaken, of course.
Poor human soul, next door is the only oasis in the desert!
It is better to pack your bags.
The end of the play.
Forgotten memories come through the foggy sky
Forgotten memories come through the foggy sky.
The lost opportunity sneaks in with the evening.
I fall asleep in life without sleeping.
It is useless to tell me that actions lead to consequences.
Knowing that action has consequences is useless.
It's all useless, it's all useless, it's all useless.
Through the fog, there is absolute emptiness.
I just started an impulse
Go and wait for someone to get off the train coming from Europe,
Go to the dock and wait for the boat to anchor and pity everything.
What sneaks in with the evening is not an opportunity.
My heart, this deceived admiral
Once commanded a fleet that had never been built,
Along a course that is not allowed by fate,
Looking for an impossible happiness.
Stranded on the beach, absurd, unnoticed,
Because what life gives him will only be despised,
Nothing was given, nothing was given, nothing was given,
As these intermittent lines of poetry say.
But living in the shadows of history
There are also benefits; silence after failure
There are more victories without roses.
Just like that, admiral of the Imperial Fleet
Full of longing and glorious dreams
Sail on its route, without retreat.
Fernando Pessoa is a famous Portuguese modernist writer and poet. Born in Lisbon in 1888, his father died of illness when he was less than six years old, and his mother remarried the Portuguese consul in Durban, South Africa, and Pessoa followed her mother to South Africa, where she attended primary and secondary schools and business schools. While studying at the University of Cape Town, his English prose won the Queen Victoria Award. He returned to Lisbon in 1905 and the following year was admitted to the Faculty of Letters of the University of Lisbon, where he studied philosophy, Latin, and diplomacy. He often went to the National Library to read the works of ancient Greek and German philosophers and continued to read and write in English. He was always a poet, although he did accounting and business translations that had nothing to do with literature. He died on November 29, 1935. The Portuguese writer Salamago, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, believes that the writers who represent the spirit of the 20th century are Kafka, Pessoa and Borges.