Alberto Caeiro

To love is to think.And I almost forget to feel only from thinking about her.I don__ know what I want at all, even from her, and I don__ think about anything but her.I have a great animated distraction.When I want to meet her,I almost feel like not meeting her,So I don__ have to leave her afterwards.And I prefer thinking about her, because it__ like I__ afraid of her.I don__ know what I want at all, and I don__ want to know what I want. All I want to do is think about her.I__ asking nothing of nobody, not even her, except to think.

She__ a manner of speaking.Even the flowers don__ come back, or the green leaves.There are new flowers, new green leaves.There are other beautiful days.Nothing comes back, nothing repeats itself, because everything is real.

It__ an already inside outside,The philosophers say it__ the soulBut it__ not the soul: it__ the animal or the man itselfIn its way of existing.

I don__ know what understanding myself is. I don__ look inside.I don__ believe I exist behind myself.

Now I sense the perfume of flowers like seeing a new thing.I know they smell just as well as I know I existed.They__e things known from the outside.But now I know with my breathing from the back of my head.

The river of my village doesn__ make you think about anything.When you__e at its bank you__e only at its bank.

I don__ regret anything I was before because I still am.I only regret not having loved you.Put your hands in mineAnd let__ be quiet, surrounded by life.

I don__ have a philosophy: I have senses...If I talk about Nature, it__ not because I know what it is,But because I love it, and that__ why I love it,Because when you love you never know what you love,Or why you love, or what love is.Loving is eternal innocence,And the only innocence is not thinking.

If I talk about her like she__ a beingIt__ because talking about her I need to use the language of menWhich gives personality to things,And imposes a name on things.

I don__ know how to talk because I__ feeling.I__ listening to my voice as if it were someone else__,And my voice is speaking about her as if she were speaking.She has hair as blond as yellow wheat in the sun,And when she speaks her mouth says things that aren__ words.She laughs, and her teeth are as clean as stones in a river.

Pensar incomoda como andar _ chuvaQuando o vento cresce e parece que chove mais.

Water__ water and that__ why it__ beautiful.

I don__ bother with rhyme. RarelyAre two trees the same, one beside the other.I think and write like flowers have colorBut with less perfection in my way of expressing myselfBecause I lack the divine simplicityOf wholly being only my exterior.I see and I__ moved,Moved the way water runs when the ground is slopingAnd what I write is as natural as the rising wind...

That lady has a piano.It__ nice, but it__ not the running of riversOr the murmuring trees make ..Who needs a piano?It__ better to have earsAnd love Nature.

She goes on with her beautiful hair and mouth like before,I go on like before, alone in the field.It__ like my head had been lowered,And if I think this, and raise my headAnd the golden sun dries the need to cry I can__ stop having.How vast the field and interior love... !I look, and I forget, like dryness where there was water and trees losing their leaves.

Other times when I hear the wind blowI feel that just hearing the wind blow makes it worth being born.

I__ in no hurry. What for?The sun and moon aren__ in a hurry: they__e right.Hurrying is believing people can get past their legs,Or that, jumping, they can land past their shadow.No; I don__ know how to hurry.

The Tejo runs down from SpainAnd the Tejo goes into the sea in Portugal.Everybody knows that.But not many people know the river of my villageAnd where it comes fromAnd where it__ going.And so, because it belongs to less people,The river of my village is freer and greater.