[BNP/E3, 49A3 – 5]

     All that we seem to fear from in[1] the night

We see but in us and imagine out,

Some we our strained eyes dream upon the affright

Of looking on the darkness and its doubt.

     Ourselves is what we dream, our “out” is we,

The infinite vague variety of things

Our infinite dreaming of variety

And infinite scope of our imaginings.

     We may never know well what is not ours

Of what we see not ours, nor do we reach

The true scope of illusion of the powers

Seeing doth as for seeing to us teach.

     So that the mystery of what we see and hear

     Is but the mystery of what we are.

10-VI-1912

Fernando Pessôa.

 
[1] in /out\