I'm not anything.
I'll never be anything.
I cannot wish to be anything.
That aside, I have within all the dreams of the world.

Oh, windows of my room,
Of one of the millions of rooms in the world, which no one knows which is
(And, if they did, what would they know?)
Facing the mistery of a street constantly crossed by people,
Of a street inaccesible to all thought,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mistery of things under the stones and beings,
With death puting humidity on walls and white hair on men,
With Destiny conducting the charriot of everything through the highway of nothing.

Today, I'm vanquished, like I knew the truth.
Today, I'm lucid, like I was about to die,
And felt fraternity with things no more
Or maybe just a farewell, becoming this house and this side of the street
A line of charriots from a convoy, and a whistled parting
From inside my head,
And a jerk of my nerves and a gritting of bones at leaving.

Today, I'm confused, like someone who thought and realized and forgot.
I'm torn between the loyalty I owe
To the Tobacco Shop of the other side of the street, like a real thing from the outside,
And to the sensation that everything is dream, like a real thing from the inside

I've failed everything.
Since I had no purpose, perhaps everything was nothing.
The schooling given to me,
I descended from it through the rear of the house,
And went to the fields with great resolution.
But there, I only found grass and trees,
And, when there were people, they were all the same.
Backing off from the window, I lay in my chair. What shall I think of?

What do I know of what I'll become, myself not knowing what I am?
To be what I think? But I think to be so much!
And there are so many thinking to be the same that there cannot be that many!
Genious? Right now
One hundred thousand brains conceive themselves, in dream, genoiuses like me,
And history won't mark, who knows? No one,
Nor there will have but manure of so many future achievements.
No, I have no faith in myself.
In all asylums there are so many insane inmates with so many convictions!
And I, having none, am either more or less correct?
No, not even me...
At how many balconies and not-balconies of the world
Are not at this time geniouses-to-themselves dreaming?
How many noble and high and lucid aspirations
Yes, truly noble and high and lucid -,
And who knows if feasible
Will never see the sunlight not even find the people's hearing?
The world is for those who are born to conquer it
Not for those who dream that could do it, even if they're right
I've dreamt more than Napoleon did.
I've held against my hipotethical chest more humanities than Christ,
I've made philosophies in secret that no Kant has ever written.
But I am, and perhaps will always be, that from the balcony,
Even not living in it;
I'll always be the one not born for this;
I'll always be only the one that had potential
I'll always be the one that waited for the door to be opened at a wall without a door
And sung the song of the Infinite in a grassland,
And heard God's voice in a shut well.
To believe in myself? No, not even in anything.
Pour Nature on my scorching head
Its sun, its rain, its wind that finds my hair,
And the rest, come it if does, or if it has to, or don't.
Cardiac slaves of the stars,
We conquer the world before raising from bed;
But we wake up, and it's dim,
We rise, and it's foreign,
We get outside, and it's the whole Earth
Plus the Solar System and the Milky Way and the Indefinite.

(Eat chocolates, little girl;
Eat it!
See that there is no more metaphysics in the world but chocolates.
See that religions teach no more than the candy shop.
Eat it, filthy girl, eat it!
If only could I eat chocolates with the same truth that you do!
But I think and, by ripping the silver wrap, which is tinfoil,
I drop it all on the floor, like I've dropped my life.)

But at least remains from the bitterness of what I'll never be
The quick manuscripts of these verses,
Shattered doors to the Impossible,
But at least I consecrate myself by this tearless contempt,
Which is noble, for being this ample gesture with which I throw away
The dirty clothes that I am to the course of things,
And rest shirtless at home.

(You, that consolates, that does not exist and because of that consolates,
Or Greek goddess, conceived as a living statue,
Or Roman patrician, impossibly noble and nefarious,
Or minstrels' princess, most gentle and colorful,
Or duchess from the eighteenth century, distant and wearing low-cut,
Or famed cocotte from the time of our parents,
Or a don't-know-what modern – I can't well conceive what -,
All this, be it whatever, if it can inspire, then inspire!
My heart is an emptied bucket.
Like those who summon spirits summon them, I summon myself,
And find nothing.
Coming to the windows, I see the street with an absolute distinctness.
I see the stores, the sidewalks, the passing cars,
I see the dressed living beings that cross upon themselves,
I see the dogs, that also exist,
An all that weights me down, like a condemnation to exile,
And all that is foreign, like everything else.)

I lived, studied, loved, and even believed,
And, today, there's no beggar that I do not envy, just for not being myself.
I look upon the rags and the scars and lies,
And think: perhaps you never lived or studied or loved or even believed
(Because it is possible to make the reality of it all doing nothing of it);
Perhaps you only have been existing, like a lizard that has the tail cut
And that is a wiggling tail beyond the lizard.

From myself, I made what I knew not,
And what I could have, I didn't.
The costume I wore was wrong.
They soon knew me as what I wasn't, and I didn't deny it, and lost myself.
When I wished to take off the mask,
It was glued to my face.
When I did, and looked upon the mirror,
I was old already.
I was drunk, and knew no more to dress the costume I didn't take off.
I tossed away the mask and slept at the changing room
Like a dog tolerated by the manager
For being harmless
And I'll write this story to prove that I'm sublime.

Musical essence of my useless verses,
If only could I meet you as a thing made by me,
And wouldn't stand always in front of the Tobacco Shop in front of me,
Treading at my feet the conscience of existing,
Like a mat in which a drunkyard trips on
Or a carpet that the Gypsy stole and was worth nothing.

But the owner of the Tobacco Shop came by its door and stood by it's door.
I look upon him, with the discomfort of the stretched head
And with the discomfort of the not-understanding soul.
He shall die and I shall die.
He shall leave the tablet, I shall leave verses.
At some point, shall also die the tablet and the street where the tablet was,
And the language in which were written the verses.
Afterwards shall die the spinning planet in which all that occured.
In other satelites of other systems anything like people
Shall keep doing anything like verses and living under anything like tablets,
Always one thing in front of the other,
Always one thing as useless as the other,
Always the impossible as stupid as the real,
Always the mistery of the depths as certain as the dreams of misteries of the surface,
Always this, or always that, or not even one thing nor the other

But a man entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),
And the plausible reality falls suddently upon me.
I stand, feeling vigorous, convinced, human,
And intend to write these verses, in which I say the opposite.

Lighting a cigarette by the thought of writing them
I savor, in my cigarette, the liberation of all thoughts.
I follow the smoke like my own route,
And enjoy, in a sensitive and competent moment,
The freedom from all speculation
And the conscience that metaphysics is a consequence of being uneasy.

Then I lie comfortably in my chair
And keep smoking.
While Destiny allows me, I shall keep smoking.

(If I married my maid's daughter
Perhaps I'd be happy.)
This considered, I raise from the chair, going to the window.

That man left the Tobacco Shop (sticking the change in his pants' pockets?).
Oh, I know him: it's no-metaphysics-Steve.
(The Tobacco Shop's owner came by the door.)
Like guided by some divine instinct, Steve turned around and saw me.
He waved at me and I yelled Farewell, oh, Steve!, and the Universe

Rebuilt around me without ideal or hope, and the Tobacco Shop's owner smiled.