Fernando Pessoa
Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa, mais conhecido como Fernando Pessoa, foi um poeta, filósofo e escritor português. Fernando Pessoa é o mais universal poeta português.
1888-06-13 Lisboa, Portugal
1935-11-30 Lisboa
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FLASHES OF MADNESS — IV
IV.
1.
When thou didst speak but now I felt
A terror mad and strange.
Conceive it thou. I could have knelt
To thy lips, to their curve, to its change.
The talking curve of thy lips
And thy teeth but slightly shown
Were my delirium's waking whips.
I felt my reason overthrown.
A super-sensual fetichism
Haunts my deep-raving brain.
Greater than ever grows the abysm
Of my reason's and feeling's schism,
Cut with the pickaxe of pain.
More than they show all things contain.
2.
Something not of this world doth lie
In thy smile, in thy lips live turn;
A figure, a form I know not why
That wakes in me — without a sigh
But with terror I cannot spurn
With terror wild and mute —
Is it remembrances, is it
Desires so vague half-known they flit
And not in thought nor sentiment take root?
My mind grows madder and more fit
In everything to catch and find
Meanings, resemblances defined
By not a form that thought can hit.
Smile not. Thou canst not comprehend!
What is this? What truth doth sleep
In these ravings without end
And beyond notion deep?
Laugh not. Know'st thou what madness is?
Wonder not. All is mysteries.
Ask not. For who can reply?
Weep for me, child, but do not love me
Who have in me too much that is above me,
Too much I cannot call «I».
Weep for the ruin of my mind
Weep rather, child, that things so deep should move me
To lose the clear thoughts that could prove me
One worthy of mankind.
1.
When thou didst speak but now I felt
A terror mad and strange.
Conceive it thou. I could have knelt
To thy lips, to their curve, to its change.
The talking curve of thy lips
And thy teeth but slightly shown
Were my delirium's waking whips.
I felt my reason overthrown.
A super-sensual fetichism
Haunts my deep-raving brain.
Greater than ever grows the abysm
Of my reason's and feeling's schism,
Cut with the pickaxe of pain.
More than they show all things contain.
2.
Something not of this world doth lie
In thy smile, in thy lips live turn;
A figure, a form I know not why
That wakes in me — without a sigh
But with terror I cannot spurn
With terror wild and mute —
Is it remembrances, is it
Desires so vague half-known they flit
And not in thought nor sentiment take root?
My mind grows madder and more fit
In everything to catch and find
Meanings, resemblances defined
By not a form that thought can hit.
Smile not. Thou canst not comprehend!
What is this? What truth doth sleep
In these ravings without end
And beyond notion deep?
Laugh not. Know'st thou what madness is?
Wonder not. All is mysteries.
Ask not. For who can reply?
Weep for me, child, but do not love me
Who have in me too much that is above me,
Too much I cannot call «I».
Weep for the ruin of my mind
Weep rather, child, that things so deep should move me
To lose the clear thoughts that could prove me
One worthy of mankind.
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