Filme do Desassossego Page #2

---

of what he belongs to,

seeing not only the multitude

he's a part of

but also the wide-open spaces

around it.

I belong to a generation that inherited

disbelief in the Christian faith

and created in itself a disbelief

in all other faiths.

Our fathers still had the

believing impulse,

which they transferred from Christianity

to other forms of illusion.

Some were champions

of social equality,

others were wholly enamoured

of beauty,

still others had faith in science

and its achievements,

and there were some who became

even more Christian,

resorting to various Easts and Wests

in search of new religious forms

to entertain their otherwise hollow

consciousness of merely living.

And so we were left,

each man to himself,

in the desolation of feeling

ourselves live.

Thus we reproduced a painful version

of the argonauts' adventurous precept:

Living doesn't matter,

only sailing does.

Without illusions,

we live by dreaming,

which is the illusion of those

who can't have illusions.

Living was painful because

we knew we were alive;

dying didn't scare us,

for we had lost the normal notion

of what death is.

But those who formed

the Terminal Race,

the spiritual limit

of the Deadly Hour,

didn't have courage enough

for true denial and asylum.

What we lived

was in denial,

discontent and disconsolation,

but we lived it within,

without moving,

forever closed,

at least in the way we lived,

inside the four painted walls

of our room

and the four stone walls

of our inability to act.

Touch me, soft eyes.

Soft, soft hand.

I feel so lonely in here.

Oh touch me soon, now.

What is this word

that everyone knows?

I am here alone and still

and also sad.

Touch me,

touch me just as I am.

Just as I am.

Everything or nothing.

Everything or nothing.

But everything is imperfect.

There's no sunset so lovely

it couldn't be yet lovelier,

no gentle breeze bringing us sleep that

couldn't bring a yet sounder sleep.

I leave who will to stay

shut up in their rooms,

sprawled out on beds

where they sleeplessly wait,

and I leave who will

to chat in the parlours,

from where their songs and voices

conveniently drift out here to me.

I'm sitting at the door,

feasting my eyes and ears

on the colours and sounds

of the landscape,

and I softly sing, for myself alone,

wispy songs I compose while waiting.

Night will fall on us all

and the coach will pull up.

Decadence is the total loss

of unconsciousness,

which is the very basis of life.

Could it think,

the heart would stop beating.

For those few like me who live without

knowing how to have life,

what's left but renunciation as our way

and contemplation as our destiny?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes