My translation from a Spanish translation:
I pity the flowers of symmetrical gardens,
They look like they’re scared of the police…
But they are so good that they flower the same way
and have the same ancient smile
that they had for the first gaze of the first man
that saw them spawned and touched them lightly
to see if they spoke…
“I am the intermediate space between what I am and what I am not,
between what I dream and what life has made of me,
the abstract and bodily mean between things that are nothing, since I am also nothing.
What restlessness when I feel, what discomfort when I think, what uselessness when I will!”
Fernando Pessoa, Book of Disquiet
If they want me to have a mysticism, fine, I
have it.
I am a mystic, but only with the body.
My soul is pure and does not think.
My mysiticism is not wanting to know.
It is to live and not think about it.
I don’t know what nature is: I sing it.
I live on top of a knoll
in a whitewashed and lonely house,
and this is my definition.