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I am nothing. I'll never be anything.
I can not want to be anything. Apart from that
Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams of the world.
From my room in one of the world's millions nobody knows
(And if they knew about me, what would they know?)
Give to the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,
For a street closed to all thoughts,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
With the death of moisture in the walls and white hair in men,
With Destiny driving the cart all the road of nothing.
Today I am defeated, as if he knew the truth. Today I'm lucid, as if he were to die, And had no more kinship with things Otherwise a goodbye, this building and this side of the street
A row of carriages of a train, and a starting whistle From inside my head, And a jolt of my nerves and a creak of bones as we go.
Today I am bewildered, as one who wondered and discovered and forgot. Today I am torn between the loyalty I In the Tobacco Shop across the street, as the real thing outside, And the feeling that everything is a dream, like the real thing inside.
I failed in everything. Since I had no purpose, maybe it was nothing. Learning they gave me, I went from the window at the back of the house.
I went to the field with great intent. But there I found only grass and trees, And when we were there like the other. I leave the window, sit in a chair. What should I think?
What do I know what I will be, I do not know what I am? Being what I think? But I think so much! And there are many who think they are the same thing that there can be many! Genius? Moment
Hundred thousand brains are conceived in a dream geniuses like me And history will not mark, perhaps, not one, There will be no manure but many future conquests. No, I do not believe in me.
In all the asylums are mad crazy with so many certainties! I, who have no certainty, I am more right or less right? No, not me ... How many non-lofts and garrets of the world
There are no geniuses in this hour-for-themselves dreaming? How many high aspirations and noble and lucid -- Yes, truly high and noble and lucid -- And who knows if achievable,
Never see the light of day will find not heard of us? The world is for those born to win And not for those who dream they can conquer it, even if they're right. I have dreamed more than Napoleon did.
I pressed the hypothetical heart more humanities than Christ, I have secretly created philosophies no Kant wrote. But I am, and perhaps always will be, from the attic
While we do not live in it; I will always be someone not born to it; I will always be the one that had qualities; I will always be what he hoped it would open the door next to a wall without door,
And sang the song of the Infinite in a brushwood And heard the voice of God in a covered well. Believe in me? No, not at all. Pour me the nature of the head burning
Your sun, her rain, the wind ruffles my hair, And the rest, let it come, or have to come or not come. Slaves heart of stars, We've conquered the world before we get out of bed;
But wake up and it is opaque, We got up and he is foreign, We left the house and it is the whole earth, Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite.
(Eat your chocolates, little Eat chocolates! Know there are no metaphysics in the world but chocolates. Look at that religions do not teach more than confectionery. Come, little girl, eat!
I could eat chocolates with the same truth that comes! But I think, and to take the silver paper, which is tin foil, Lay everything on the floor, as I lay on a life.)
But at least it is the bitterness of that will never be The rapid calligraphy of these verses, Porch party for the Impossible. But at least consecrate myself a contempt without tears, Noble at least the gesture with which shoot
The dirty clothes that I am, in a list, to the course of things, And stay home without a shirt.
(You who consoles, which do not exist and therefore consoles Or Greek goddess, conceived as a statue that was alive, Or Roman patrician, impossibly noble and nefarious, Or Princess of troubadours, gentle and colorful,
Or Marquise eighteenth century, low-cut and distant, Or famous courtesan of the time of our fathers Or do not know what modern - and I can not imagine what -- All this, whatever, you are, you can inspire to inspire!
My heart is an overturned bucket. As those who invoke invoke invoke spirits spirits Myself and find nothing. Come to the window and see the street with absolute clarity.
I see the stores, I see the rides, I see the passing cars, I see the living things that cross dresses, I see dogs that also exist, All this weighs on me as a sentence of banishment,
And all this is foreign to everything.)
Lived, studied, loved and even believed, And today there is no beggar I do not envy just was not me. I look at each one the rags and wounds and lies And I think, perhaps never lived or studied or loved or believed
(Because it is possible to make the reality of it all without doing any of that); Maybe you have existed only as a lizard who cut the tail And that is short tail lizard to swing
I made me who I did not know And what could make me I did not. The costume that I wore was wrong. They immediately took me for who was not and did not deny it, and lost. When I tried to take the mask,
It was stuck to my face. When I took it and looked in the mirror, I had grown old. I was drunk, did not know how to wear the costume that was not taken.
I threw away the mask and slept in the locker room As a dog tolerated by management Because it is harmless And I write this story to prove that I am sublime.
Musical essence of my useless verses, We wish to find me as something I did, And not always stay in front of the Tobacco Shop across the street, Trampling underfoot the consciousness of existing,
As a carpet in a drunken stumble Or a doormat stolen by gypsies and worth nothing.
But the Tobacco Shop owner came to the door and stood at the door. Look at him with the discomfort of the head half-turned And the discomfort of the half-grasping soul. He will die and I die.
He will leave the sign, I leave my poems. At one point the sign will die too, the verses also. After some time die the street where the sign, And the language in which the poems were written.
Will die after the spinning planet where all this took place. On other satellites of other systems something like people Continue doing things like poems and living under things like tablets,
Always the impossible as stupid as the real,
When the mystery of the fund as sure as the mystery of the sleep surface Always this or where else or neither one nor the other.
But a man entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?) And plausible reality suddenly upon me. Half rouse me energetic, convinced, human, And I'm going to write these verses that say the opposite.
I light a cigarette to think about writing them And savor the cigarette to release all thoughts. I follow the smoke as a personal itinerary And enjoy, a time sensitive and competent
The release of all the speculation And the awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling well.
Then I lie back in his chair And keep smoking. While Destiny allows, I will keep smoking.
(If I married the daughter of my washerwoman May be happy.) Given this, I get up from his chair. Go to the window. The man left the Tobacco (putting change in his pocket?).
Oh, I know him: he is Esteves without metaphysics. (The Tobacco Shop owner came to the door.) As a divine instinct, Esteves turned around and saw me.
He waved goodbye, I cried to him, Esteves Goodbye!, And the universe Rebuilt to me without ideal or hope, and the Tobacco Shop owner smiled.