This
They say I lie or feign
In all I write. Not true.
Itʾs simply that I feel
By way of imagination.
The heart I never use.
All I dream or live,
All that fails me or simply
Ends, is like a terrace
Covering some other thing.
That thing is whatʾs lovely.
Thatʾs why I write in the midst
Of whatever isnʾt near me,
Freed from my reality,
Serious about what isnʾt.
Feel? Thatʾs up to the reader!
[published in April of 1933]
PESSOA, Fernando, Forever Someone Else: selected poems, translated by Richard Zenith. Lisboa: Assírio & Alvim, 2013, p. 281