Friday, March 22, 2013
The ship was dressed with the wrong flags.
It continues to rain.
Why do you gaze at the distant city?
Your soul is the distant city.
It rains a chill rain.
And as for the mother who rocks a dead child in her arms --
We all rock a dead child in our arms.
It rains, it rains.
I see the sad smile left on your weary lips
In the way your finger won't let go of your rings.
Why does it rain?
Posted by Fernando Pessoa at 8:07 AM