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The blighter that is at the end of the sea On the pitch-black night raised itself flying; Round the vessel it flew three times, Three times it flew c… - Fernando Pessoa
" "The blighter that is at the end of the sea
On the pitch-black night raised itself flying;
Round the vessel it flew three times,
Three times it flew creaking,
And said, 'Who dared pierce
Into my dens that I do not reveal,
My black ceilings of the end of the world?'
And the helmsman said, trembling,
'His Majesty King John the Second!' 'Whose sails are these then which I rub against?
Whose the keels I see and hear?'
Said the blighter, and rolled three times,
Three times it rolled filthy and bulky,
'Who attempts what is solely my power,
I who abide where no one ever could see me
And who drip the fears of the depthless sea?'
And the helmsman trembled, and said,
'His Majesty King John the Second!' Three times he raised his hands from the helm,
Three times he had them rooted on the helm,
And said after trembling three times,
'Here at the helm I am more than myself:
I am a People who wants the sea that is yours;
And more than the blighter, that my soul fears
And rolls on the darkness of the end of the world,
Orders the will, that ties me at the helm,
Of His Majesty King John the Second!'
English
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About Fernando Pessoa
Fernando Pessoa (13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935) was a Portuguese poet and writer, most of whose work was published posthumously. He wrote frequently under heteronyms, alter egos with developed personalities, biographies, jobs, habits, attitudes, addresses, etc., who sometimes quoted and interacted with each other and other people.
Also Known As
Pen Names:
Alberto Caeiro
•
Álvaro de Campos
•
Ricardo Reis
•
Bernardo Soares
Native Name:
Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa
Alternative Names:
Fernando Antonio Nogueira Pessoa
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Additional quotes by Fernando Pessoa
In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago. And many of them seem to me written by a stranger: I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else's dream.
Permanezcamos así eternamente, como la estampa de un hombre en un vitral frente a la de una mujer en otro vitral....Entre nosotros, sombras cuyos pasos suenan fríos, son de la humanidad que pasa....Murmullos de plegarias, secretos de (....) pasaran entre nosotros.....A veces el aire se puebla de (.....) de inciensos. Y nosotros siempre en los mismos vitrales, en los colores que el sol nos dará al tocarnos, en las líneas impuestas por la noche al caer...Los siglos no incidirán en nuestro silencio vítreo....Fuera de nosotros pasaran civilizaciones, estallaran revueltas, se sucederán en torbellino las fiestas, pasaran, mansos, pueblos de sólida rutina...Y nosotros, oh, amor mío irreal, tendremos siempre el mismo gesto inútil, la misma existencia falsa.
Hasta que un día, al cabo de varios siglos de imperios, la Iglesia se derrumbe y todo se acabe....
Pero nosotros, que de todo eso nada sabemos, perduraremos sin embargo, no se en que espacio, no se cómo, no se cuánto tiempo, vitrales eternos, horas de ingenuo diseño pintado por un artista cualquiera que duerme hace mucho tiempo bajo una tumba goda donde dos ángeles congelan en sus manos de mármol la idea de la muerte.
Original: O mito é o nada que é tudo.
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