Fernando Pessoa

The Athenaeum 4683, 30 de janeiro de 1920, p. 136.


Far away, far away,

Far away from here . . .

There is no worry after joy

Or away from fear

Far away from here.

Her lips were not very red,

Nor her hair quite gold.

Her hands played with rings.

She did not let me hold

Her hands playing with gold.

She is somewhere past,

Far away from pain.

Joy can touch her not, nor hope

Enter her domain,

Neither love in vain.

Perhaps at some day beyond

Shadows and light

She will think of me and make

All me a delight,

All away from sight.