Fernando Pessoa, writing as Ricardo Reis, 28 September 1932
Nada fica de nada. Nada somos.
Um pouco ao sol e ao ar nos atrasamos
da irrespirável treva que nos pese
da húmida terra imposta,
cadáveres adiados que procriam.
Leis feitas, estátuas vistas, odes findas—
tudo tem cova sua. Se nós, carnes
a que um íntimo sol dá sangue, temos
poente, porque não elas?
Somos contos contando contos, nada.
Nothing comes from nothing. We are nothing.
For a little while in the sun and air, we put off
the suffocating gloom that bears down on us
lying in the moist earth,
deferred corpses that breed.
Made laws, statutes observed, completed odes—
all will have their grave. If we,
flesh which an inner sun sustains,
must have a sunset, why shouldn’t they?
We are stories telling stories, nothing more.
Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.
This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.