Lisboa, Portugal

O que me dói não é
O que há no coração
Mas essas coisas lindas
Que nunca existirão…

São as formas sem forma
Que passam sem que a dor
As possa conhecer
Ou as sonhar o amor.

São como se a tristeza
Fosse árvore e uma a uma,
Caíssem suas folhas
Entre o vestígio e a bruma.

– – – – –

What hurts me is not
What is in the heart
But those beautiful things
Which will never be.

They are the forms without form
That go by without pain
Being able to know
Or love to dream them.

They are as if sadness
Were a tree and one by one,
Its leaves were falling
Between the trace and the mist.

By Fernando Pessoa

Saudade

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