by Fernando Pessoa, translated by Richard Zenith
The poet is a feigner who is so good at his act he even feigns the pain of pain he feels in fact.
And those who read his words Will feel in his writing neither of the pains he has but just the one they’re missing.
And so around its track this thing called the heart winds, a little clockwork train to entertain our minds.
‘Autopsychography’ is Portuguese Fernando Pessoa’s (1888-1935) most translated poem. I think the reason why it has been repeatedly translated is the fact that so many authors finding an echo in Pessoa’s words. A poet fakes his pains, even when the pain he portrays is the pain he indeed feels, and it’s all in the name of the creative process. When I write about my own emotions and feelings, there is always a creative process that alters the pain as it is described. Below is my working translation. Any authors with any thoughts on this?
The poet is an actor. He acts so sincerely, he even pretends it is pain, the pain he feels truly.
And those who read his works, in reading his pains can feel, not the poet’s fake and real pains, but only the ones they never felt.
And so, entertaining the reason rides this little clockwork toy, that we call the heart, round and round on its track.
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