📷Travel Photography

CONTRADICTIONS

Today I am cruel, frantic, demanding;
I can't even tolerate the most bizarre books.
Unbelievable! I've smoked three packs of cigarettes
In a row. My head aches.

I stifle some mute despairs:
So much depravity in manners, in customs!
I love, foolishly, acids, blades,
And acute angles.

I sat at my desk. Across the way lives
An unfortunate woman, breastless, both lungs sick;
She suffers from shortness of breath, her relatives have died,
And she takes in ironing.

Poor white skeleton among the snow-like clothes!
So pale! The doctor has abandoned her.
She toils endlessly! And owes the pharmacy bill!
Barely earns enough for soup...

Obstacles stimulate us, make us perverse;
Now I feel full of cold rages,
Because a newspaper rejected, days ago,
A verse serial of mine.

Such bad humor! I tore apart a dead epic
From the bottom of my drawer. What does study produce?
More than one editorial office, the kind that praises everything,
Has shut its door on me.

Criticism, according to Taine's method,
Is unknown to them. I gathered into a great bonfire
Countless unpublished papers. The press
Deserves solemn disdain.

With rare exceptions, it earns only my epigrams.
Midnight struck; and peacefully down the sidewalk,
A sol-e-dó sobs. It drizzles. The rabble
Delights in the mud.

I've never dedicated poems to fortunes,
But rather, out of deference, to friends or artists.
Independent! For that reason alone journalists
Deny me their columns.

They fear the naive subscriber will abandon them,
If they publish such things, such authors.
Art? It doesn't suit them, as their readers
Rave for Zaccone.

Any prose writer gains honorable fame,
Earns money, builds their coterie;
And for me, no matter vexes me more
Than writing in prose.

Flattery repels refined feelings;
I rarely speak to our literati,
And I take care to craft original and exact
Alexandrines of my own...

And the consumptive woman? Locked away, with the iron hot!
She’s unaware that the embers suffocate her,
Doesn't flee from the clothesline that dampens her home,
And withers under neglect!

She subsists on tea and bread! Better to enter the grave.
She fades; and yet, weakly in the afternoon,
I hear her humming a plaintive song
From a new operetta!

Perfectly. I’ll end without bitterness.
Who knows if later, wealthy and in other climes,
I’ll manage to reread these old rhymes,
Printed in a volume?

In literature, I know it’s a battlefield;
It employs advertising, intrigue, announcements, bluffing,
And this poetry requires a publisher to pay
For all my works.

And I feel better; my anger has passed.
And the neighbor?
The poor ironing woman will go to bed without supper?
I see her light on in her room. Still working. She’s ugly...
What a world! Poor thing!

"CESÁRIO VERDE"

I am sharing photos of landscapes, moments and experiences. Nature and sea are the most visited themes in my photo collection, but any attention-grabbing aspect can be photographed. Hope you enjoy it...

ARE YOU ALL READY FOR TRAVEL? ✈️