Cruzou Por Mim

Crossed by me, came to me, on a downtown street
That poorly dressed man, a beggar by profession written all over his face,
Who sympathizes with me and I sympathize with him;
And reciprocally, in a wide, overflowing gesture, I gave him everything I had
(except, of course, what was in the pocket where I keep more money:
I'm not stupid or a Russian novelist, dedicated,
And romanticism, yes, but slowly...).

I feel sympathy for all those people,
Especially when they don't deserve sympathy.
Yes, I am also a vagabond and a beggar,
And I am so also because of my fault.
Being a vagabond and a beggar is not being a vagabond and a beggar:
It's being on the side of the social scale,
It's not being adaptable to the norms of life,
To the real or sentimental norms of life -
Not being a supreme judge, a certain employee, a prostitute,
Not being genuinely poor, an exploited worker,
Not being sick with an incurable disease,
Not being thirsty for justice, or a cavalry captain,
Not being, in short, those social people from novels
Who are tired of letters because they have a reason to cry tears,
And rebel against social life because they have a reason to suppose that.

No: anything but being right!
Anything but caring about humanity!
Anything but giving in to humanitarianism!
What good is a feeling if there is a reason outside of it?

Yes, being a vagabond and a beggar, like I am,
Is not being a common vagabond and beggar:
It's being isolated in the soul, and that's what being a vagabond is,
It's having to ask the days to pass, and leave us, and that's what being a beggar is.

Everything else is as stupid as a Dostoevsky or a Gorky.
Everything else is being hungry or not having clothes to wear.
And even if that happens, it happens to so many people
That it's not even worth feeling sorry for those it happens to.

I am truly a vagabond and beggar, that is, in a metaphorical sense,
And I am rolling in a great charity for myself.

Poor Álvaro de Campos!
So isolated in life! so depressed in sensations!
Poor him, stuck in the armchair of his melancholy!
Poor him, who with tears (authentic) in his eyes,
Today gave, in a wide, generous and Muscovite gesture,
Everything he had, in the pocket where that poor man who wasn't poor had little, with sad eyes by profession.

Poor Álvaro de Campos, whom no one cares about!
Poor him who pities himself so much!

And, yes, poor him!
Even more poor him than many who are vagabonds and wander,
Who are beggars and beg,
Because the human soul is an abyss.

I know. Poor him!
How good it would be to revolt in a rally within my soul!

But I'm not even stupid!
I don't even have the defense of being able to have social opinions.
I have no defense at all: I am lucid.

Don't try to convert me to conviction: I am lucid!
I've already said: I am lucid.
No aesthetics with a heart: I am lucid.
Damn it! I am lucid.