They will stay like this, eternal on the library shelf
like from a vantage point to nowhere?
(Don't be distracted). Know that
On the night of some day, the life collector
she will arrive, she will remove me from the cast
And she will charge to the final hole
Bread for the mouth of the memory, things and little things
(don't be distracted) distant, impassive,
They hear the black knock of the call, and will they stay?
Thus, dead of boredom the virgin steel
of decorative knives?
Thus the jade shark that dreams
with the little whale with the almond eyes?
Thus, the trophy- sports-
from when my body bulldozer was going, was it just going?
So, the smoke pipes that the wind carried away?
The box -wood root of a memory tree-
guardian of the golden curl of? ...
So, Grandma Eiffel's great-granddaughter tower?
Things and little things (don't be distracted)
They'll stay like this, without a complaint, a fuss
resistance, a roadblock?
So, you drop out, looking the other way?
And you, Don Fernando Pessoa –moved to portrait–
(silver frame, what less).
Is it possible, I ask, not a wrinkle of his eyebrow,
not a wink for this heathen?
This me who worshiped him, this devotee of each other of his.
You too Don Fernando?
You too?