Fernando Pessoa

Come sit by my side Lydia, on the bank of the river.
Calmly let us watch it flowing and learn
That life is passing, and we are not holding hands.
          (Let us hold hands.)

Let us stop holding hands, for it is not worth tiring ourselves.
Whether we enjoy or not, we pass with the river.
Better to know how to pass silently
          And without great disquiet.

Let us love calmly, thinking that we could,
If we would, exchange kisses and embraces and caresses,
But that it is better to sit beside each other
          Hearing the river flow and seeing it.

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1 Response to Fernando Pessoa

  1. shinichi says:

    Come sit by my side, Lydia

    by Fernando Pessoa

    Come sit by my side Lydia, on the bank of the river.
    Calmly let us watch it flowing and learn
    That life is passing, and we are not holding hands.
              (Let us hold hands.)

    Then let us think, as grown up children, that life
    Passes and does not stay, nothing stops or ever turns back,
    It goes towards a sea very far away, towards where Fate is,
              Further away than the gods.

    Let us stop holding hands, for it is not worth tiring ourselves.
    Whether we enjoy or not, we pass with the river.
    Better to know how to pass silently
              And without great disquiet.

    Without loves, or hatreds, or passions that raise the voice,
    Or envies that set the eyes in motion too,
    Or cares – for if it had them the river would still run,
              Would still go to meet the sea.

    Let us love calmly, thinking that we could,
    If we would, exchange kisses and embraces and caresses,
    But that it is better to sit beside each other
              Hearing the river flow and seeing it.

    Let us gather flowers, and you, take hole of them, leave them
    On your bosom, and let their perfume sweeten the moment –
    This moment when quietly we believe in nothing,
              Innocent pagans of decadence.

    At least, if dark comes first, you will remember me after
    Without the memory of me burning or striking or moving you,
    For we never hold hands, nor kiss,
              Nor were we more than children.

    And if before me you bear the penny to the dark boatman,
    I shall have nothing to suffer remembering you.
    You will be sweet to my memory remembering you thus – on the river-bank,
              A sad pagan with flowers in her lap.

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