windows of my room,
the room of one of the millions in the world that no one knows who
(and if they knew who he is, what would know?)
you look on the mystery of a street constantly crossed by people,
on a route inaccessible to all thoughts,
Real, impossibly real, certain, certain sconosciutamente,
with the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
with death that brings moisture into the walls and white hair in men,
with Destiny that drives the cart all the way of anything .
Today I am defeated, as if I knew the truth.
today are shiny, as if you were to die,
and I did not have fellowship with other things
a farewell, and this house and this side of the street became
the row of cars of a train and leaving booed
from inside my head,
and a shock of my nerves and a creak of bones in the opening.
Today I am puzzled as the person who thought, found and forgotten.
today are torn between loyalty I have
the Tobacco on the other side of the road as the real thing from the outside,
and the feeling that everything is a dream, like the real thing from the inside.
have failed in everything.
But since I had no respect, maybe everything is nothing.
From teaching I have taught,
have come down through the back window of the house.
I went to campaign full of great intentions.
But there I met with only grass and trees,
and when there was, people were alike.
am departing from the window, sit on a chair. What should I think?
What I know what I am, I do not know what they are?
be what I think? But I think I have so many things!
And many think they're the same thing can not there be so many!
Genius? At this time
one hundred thousand brain genes are conceived in a dream like me,
and history does not reveal, who knows?, Not one,
there will be nothing more than manure of many future achievements.
No, I do not believe in me.
In all the asylums are raving mad with such certainty!
it, I do not have any certainty, are more healthy or less healthy?
No, not even me ...
in many lofts and attics of the world-
will not stand dreaming at this gene-for-its-self?
How many aspirations high, noble and lucid -,
yes, really high, noble and lucid -,
and perhaps achievable,
will never be real in the light of the sun nor will I hear?
The world belongs to those who are born to conquer
and not those who dream of being able to win, even if he's right.
I dreamed more than Napoleon has achieved.
I close the chest hypothetical more humanity of Christ.
I secretly created philosophies no Kant wrote.
But they are, and perhaps always will be, that of the garret,
even though we live;
will always be the one who was not born for this;
will always be only that he possessed the quality
will always be what he expected that would open the door in front of a wall without a door,
and sang the song of the Infinite in a chicken coop,
and heard the voice of God in un pozzo chiuso.
Credere in me? No, nè in niente.
Che la Natura sparga sulla mia testa scottante
il suo sole, la sua pioggia, il vento che trova i miei capelli,
e il resto venga pure se verrà o dovrà venire, altrimenti non venga.
Schiavi cardiaci delle stelle,
abbiamo conquistato tutto il mondo prima di alzarci dal letto;
ma ci siamo svegliati ed esso è opaco,
ci siamo raised and they have nothing,
we left the house and it is the whole earth,
more the solar system, the Milky Way and the Indefinite.
(Eat chocolates, little one, eat chocolates!
Watch the world that there is no other metaphysical chocolates.
Look at all the other religions do not teach the pastry.
Eat, dirty girl, eat!
If only I could eat chocolates with the same concreteness with which you eat them!
But I think and, removing the silver paper, which is then foil,
throw everything on the floor, as I threw the life).
But at least for what remains of bitterness will never
the handwriting of these lines rapidly,
porch collapsed on the impossible.
But at least I consecrate myself to a contempt without tears,
least in the large noble gesture, which throws
the dirty clothes that I am, without a list, in the course of things,
and rest at home without a shirt.
(You, that consuls, consuls and therefore do not exist,
Greek goddess, conceived as a living statue,
or Roman patrician, impossibly noble and nefarious,
or princess of the troubadours, gentle and colorful
marquise or the eighteenth century, detached and aloof,
or famous cocotte era of our fathers,
o non so che di moderno - non capisco bene cosa -,
tutto questo, qualsiasi cosa tu sia, se può ispirare che ispiri!
Il mio cuore è un secchio svuotato.
Come quelli che invocano spiriti invoco
me stesso ma non trovo niente).
Mi avvicino alla finestra e vedo la strada con assoluta nitidezza.
Vedo le botteghe, vedo i marciapiedi, vedo le vetture passare,
vedo gli esseri vivi vestiti che s'incrociano,
see the dogs that they exist,
and all this weighs on me as a banishment,
and all that is foreign, like everything else.
I lived, studied, loved, and even believed,
and today there is no beggar that I do not envy just because it is not me.
look at each of the rags and sores, and lying,
and think maybe I have never lived nor studied, nor love, nor believed
(because you can create the reality of all this without making any of this);
maybe you're just existed, like a lizard whose tail cut
and that is restless on this side of the lizard tail.
I did what I did not know me,
and what I could do to me I did not.
the domain that I wore was wrong.
I recognized immediately for what was not and I have not denied this, and I'm lost.
When I wanted take off the mask,
was glued to the face.
When I closed and I looked in the mirror,
was already aged.
I was drunk, I could no longer wear the domino that I had not taken off.
I threw the mask and stayed in the closet
like a dog tolerated by
harmless because
and write this story to prove sublime.
Essence of Music my useless verses,
I wish I could meet as a thing made by me,
themselves and not always in front of the Tobacco opposite,
trampling consciousness to exist,
like a carpet in which a drunken man stumbles
stolen by gypsies, or a door mat that was worth nothing.
But the owner of Tobacco hath been facing the door and stayed there.
I look at him with the discomfort of the head bent badly
and the discomfort of the soul that is sensing.
He will die and I die.
He will leave the shop, I'll let the verses.
At some point he will die also teaches, as well as the verses.
After a while, 'the road where he died was the sign,
And the language in which the verses were written.
will die then the spinning planet where everything happened.
In other satellites of other systems something like people
continuerà a fare cose simili a versi vivendo sotto cose simili a insegne,
sempre una cosa di fronte all'altra,
sempre una cosa inutile quanto l'altra,
sempre l'impossibile, stupido come il reale,
sempre il mistero del profondo certo come il sonno del mistero della superficie,
sempre questo o sempre qualche altra cosa o nè una cosa nè l'altra.
Ma un uomo è entrato nella Tabaccheria (per comprare tabacco?),
and plausible reality suddenly comes down on me.
I stand strong, believe a human
with the intention of writing these lines to say otherwise.
light a cigarette while I write them
cigarette and relish in the freedom from all thought.
I follow the smoke as if it had its own path,
and I enjoy, in a time sensitive and competent
liberation from all speculation
and awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of being unwell.
Then I reach the chair
and continued to smoke.
Until Fate will grant me, I will continue to smoke.
(If married the daughter of my washerwoman
maybe I'd be happy.)
Given this, I get up from his chair.
I go to the window.
The man is out of the Tobacco (putting the rest in the pocket pants?).
Ah, I know: You Esteves without metaphysics.
(The Lord of the Tobacco has run facing the entrance.)
As a divine instinct has run Esteves turned around and saw me.
I was greeted with a nod, I cried Goodbye Esteves!, And the universe
I was reconstructed without ideal or hope, and the owner of the Tobacco Shop smiled.
(Alvaro de Campos, aka Fernando Pessoa )
ive, a specific market segment 
