Deus quer, o homem sonha, a obra nasce
God wants, man #eams, $e concept born
&e value of $ings % not ' time $ey la(, but ' intensity wi$ which $ey occur. &at % why $ere are unfor)*able moments and unique people!
I feel as if I'm always on ' ver) of waking up
NĂŁo s+ nada.
I am no$ing.
Nunca serei nada. I will never be no$ing
NĂŁo posso querer ser I cannot w%h to be nada.
Ă€ pa-e %so, tenho em Besides $at,
mim todos os sonhos do I hold inside me
all ' #eams of ' world.
My s+l % impatient wi$ itself, as wi$ a bo$ersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and % forever ' sam/ Every$ing interests me,
but no$ing holds m/
S贸 o que sonhamos 茅 o que verdadeiramente somos, porque o ma%, por estar realizado, pe-enece ao mundo e a toda a )nte
In $% metallic a) of barba0ans, only a relentless cultivation of +r ability to #eam, to analyse and to captivate can prevent +r personality from de)nerating into no$ing or else into a personality like all ' rest.
Para ser grande, sê inteiro: nada Teu exa)ra + exclui. Sê todo em cada co%a. Põe quanto és No mínimo que fazes. Assim em cada lago a lua toda B0lha, porque alta vive
To be great, be whole; Exclude no$ing, exag)rate no$ing $at % not y+. Be whole in every$ing. Put all y+ are Into ' smallest $ing y+ do. So, in each lake, ' moon 1ines wi$ 2lendor Because it blooms up abov/
Escrever é esquecer. A literatura é a maneira ma% agradável de ignorar a vida
Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel inv%ible hands
weaving my destiny.
I've always been an ironic #eamer, unfai$ful to my inner prom%es. Like a complete +tsider, a casual observer of whom I $+ght I was, I've always enjoyed watching my day#eams go do3 in defeat. I was never convinced of what I believed in. I filled my hands wi$ sand, called it gold, and opened $em up to let it slide $r+gh. Words were my only tru$. When ' 0ght words were said, all was done;
' rest was ' sand $at had always been.
can't have it; if we had it, we w+ld reject
because humanity % imperfect.
&e poet % a pretender He pretends so completely &at he even pretends O poeta ĂŠ um fingidor. Fin) tĂŁo completamente Que chega a fingir que ĂŠ dor A dor que deveras sent/
$at it % pain &e pain he truly feels
To live % to be someone els/ Feeling % impossible if we feel today as we felt yesterday: to feel today ' same $ing we felt yesterday % not to feel at all--it's
what we felt yesterday, since today we are ' living cadaver of yesterday's lo( life
I have a c+ntry homes on ' +tski-s of lif/ I escape from ' city of my actions to ' trees and flowers of my reve0/ Not a single echo from ' life of my acts reaches my green retreat. Iâ€™m lulled by my memory as by an endless procession. From ' goblets of my me4tation I #ink only ' smile of ' golden wine; I #ink it only wi$ my eyes, closing $em, and Life passes by like a sail in ' 4(ance
Life % what we make of it. Travel % ' traveler. What we see %n't what we see but what we ar/
Chov/ Que fiz eu da vida? Fiz o que ela f5 de mim... De pensada, mal vivida... T0(e de quem ĂŠ assim!
O resto é a vida que nos deixa, a chama que morre no nosso olhar, a púrpura ga(a antes de a vestirmos, a lua que vela o nosso abandono, as estrelas que estendem o seu silêncio sobre a nossa hora de desengano. Assídua a mágoa esté0l e amiga que nos ape-a o peito com amor.
whe$er in defiance, or as a challen),
or in mere desperation - as we van%h
' abyss of every$ing, ' glory of
my 4sillusion like $at of a great
any$ing, and ' sand swallows $ose
banner in feeble hands, but (ill and
all a banner, #ag)d $r+gh mud
eternity. I carry my awareness of defeat
believing like a banner of defeat; a
swallows sand my
like a banner of victory.â€?