When I wrote to clothe the woman that I loved
in words, the way the rising Sun is given
color by the clouds that move across
the atmosphere, pink, maroon and violet
stretched to the horizon as I spoke.
The new day was a dress for my beloved
that I articulated of a couple vowels
ornamented by harsh consonants.
The Sunlight in the branches was not more
than moonlight in Pessoa's trees, although
the poet dressed her in elaborate garb;
But for me now, one who no longer thinks,
the clothes I had supposed are nothing more
than veils obscuring her resplendent body.
No comments:
Post a Comment