*by Fernando Pessoa* >The time I’ve spent dreaming— >Years and years of my life! >Ah, how much of my past >Was only the false life >Of a future I imagined! > >Here on the bank of the river >I grow calm for no reason. >Its empty flowing mirrors, >Cold and anonymous, >The life I’ve lived in vain. > >How little hope ever attains! >What longing is worth the wait? >Any child’s ball >Rises higher than my hope, >Rolls farther than my longing. > >Waves of the river, so slight >That you aren’t even waves, >The hours, days and years >Pass quickly—mere grass or snow >Which die by the same sun. > >I spent all I didn’t have. >I’m older than I am. >The illusion that kept me going >Was a queen only on stage: >Once undressed, her reign was over. > >Soft sound of these slow waters >Aching for shores you’ve passed, >How drowsy are the memories >Of misty hopes! What dreams >All dreaming and life amount to! > >What did I make of my life? >I found myself when already lost. >Impatient, I let myself be, >As I might let a lunatic go on >Believing what I’d proved was wrong. > >Dead sound of these gentle waters >That flow because they must, >Take not only my memories >But also my dead hopes— >Dead, because they must die. > >I’m already my future corpse. >Only a dream links me to myself— >The hazy and belated dream >Of what I should have been—a wall >Around my abandoned garden. > >Take me, passing waves, >To the oblivion of the sea! >Bequeath me to what I won’t be— >I, who raised a scaffold >Around the house I never built.