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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5 - GOBLIN DANCE
First there was but the moon
And the black‑tramelled trees
In the lunar lagoon
Of the forgotten breeze.
Then some unseen thing stirred
Where the moon‑silence snowed
And a vague whirl unheard
Vacantly tip‑toed.
Slowly, idly, alone,
Beyond the eyes of sight,
Somewhere invisibly shown,
They danced their delight.
Their far vagueness wound
Round the heart a pain,
A phantom fear found
Voluble and vain.
The heart remembered lives
Before loves and homes,
Whose rare memory revives
Only when this dance comes.
A wish for a vague thing soon,
A loosened sense of selves,
A thing in the soul like moon,
Aught in the hopes like elves -
Tip‑toe aerial gliding
Shadow‑lunar blent,
Bending, mingling, hiding,
To and fro they went.
Left and right, belonging
To no place, they swayed.
A low pipe, like longing,
To their dancing played.
There, in the silence dropped
Like a thing on the ground,
Whirled they awhile, then stopped,
Then renewed their round,
Till with their slowing turns
The cold air grows more bare.
Then the mere moonlight returns
And there had been nothing there.
And the black‑tramelled trees
In the lunar lagoon
Of the forgotten breeze.
Then some unseen thing stirred
Where the moon‑silence snowed
And a vague whirl unheard
Vacantly tip‑toed.
Slowly, idly, alone,
Beyond the eyes of sight,
Somewhere invisibly shown,
They danced their delight.
Their far vagueness wound
Round the heart a pain,
A phantom fear found
Voluble and vain.
The heart remembered lives
Before loves and homes,
Whose rare memory revives
Only when this dance comes.
A wish for a vague thing soon,
A loosened sense of selves,
A thing in the soul like moon,
Aught in the hopes like elves -
Tip‑toe aerial gliding
Shadow‑lunar blent,
Bending, mingling, hiding,
To and fro they went.
Left and right, belonging
To no place, they swayed.
A low pipe, like longing,
To their dancing played.
There, in the silence dropped
Like a thing on the ground,
Whirled they awhile, then stopped,
Then renewed their round,
Till with their slowing turns
The cold air grows more bare.
Then the mere moonlight returns
And there had been nothing there.
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