Fog by Fernando Pessoa
Not King nor law, not peace nor war Grasps the outline and the truth Of, look, that creeping gleam of the earth That's Portugal breaking the heart - A flaring without light or heat, Like a will-ó-the-wisp's core.
No-one knows what she desires. No-one has seen what soul is hers, What is bad, what is good, in there (What distant agony mourning near?) All's uncertain and is the end, All is scattered, nothing entire. O Portugal, fog you are ...
Comes the Hour! ...
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