the empires of our
infancy,
the rocks of our childhood,
and the streams of our adolescence,
are gone-
soaring with the wind-
they have been trampled upon-
obliviated.
and our empires are now gardens,
the rocks mere pebbles
and the streams only storm drains-
the house of sand collapses...
the promises of our infancy,
the potential of our childhood,
and the hopes of our adolescence,
are gone-
soaring with the wind-
they are trampled upon-
obliviated.
and our promise is now a distant dream,
our potential plain wishful thinking,
and the hopes only immature fantasies,
the house of sand collapses...
trapped living out of time,
despairing,
wishing to turn back time,
the house of sand has collapsed.
the rocks of our childhood,
and the streams of our adolescence,
are gone-
soaring with the wind-
they have been trampled upon-
obliviated.
and our empires are now gardens,
the rocks mere pebbles
and the streams only storm drains-
the house of sand collapses...
the promises of our infancy,
the potential of our childhood,
and the hopes of our adolescence,
are gone-
soaring with the wind-
they are trampled upon-
obliviated.
and our promise is now a distant dream,
our potential plain wishful thinking,
and the hopes only immature fantasies,
the house of sand collapses...
trapped living out of time,
despairing,
wishing to turn back time,
the house of sand has collapsed.
2 comments:
I really feel this poem man, captures the feeling of despair that comes with realizing that you could be so much more, but man-made circumstances stand in your way. The past begins begins to appear preferable, and nostalgia sets in because the future doesn't seem to hold much better. And the house of sand crumbles...and crumbles...
To use the term 'clerk' as an insult is simply a banal vulgarity; Pessoa and Svevo, however would have welcomed it as a just attribute of the poet. The latter does not resemble Achilles or Diomedes, ranting on their war-chariots, but is more like Ulysses, who knows that he is no one. He manifests himself in this revelation of impersonality that conceals him in the prolixity of things, as travelling erases the traveller in the confused murmur of the street.
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