I believe that saying a thing is to keep its virtues and take away its terror.

But I am not perfect in my way of putting things Because I lack the divine simplicity Of being only what I appear to be.

My homeland is the portuguese language.

I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it’s not me.

But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?

Everything is worthwhile if the soul is not small.

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice