Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)

I don’t bother with rhyme. Rarely
Are two trees the same, one beside the other.
I think and write like flowers have color
But with less perfection in my way of expressing myself
Because I lack the divine simplicity
Of wholly being only my exterior.

I see and I’m moved,
Moved the way water runs when the ground is sloping
And what I write is as natural as the rising wind…

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