How often I regret not being the driver
of that car or the coachman of that carriage.
All day long I've worked as if in a half-sleep,
doing my sums the way things are done in dreams,
writing left to right across my torpor.
In the depths of the horizon it must be almost dark blue,
different from the black blue in the depths of the sky.
Having Vasques as my boss,
I can enjoy dreaming of kings; having the office on Rua dos Douradores,
I can enjoy the inner vision of non-existent landscapes.
Rousseau is the modern man,
but more complete than any modern man.
It's raining on this cold and sad winter afternoon as if it had been raining,
just as monotonously,
since the first page of the world.
To think that right here,
on the sunlit surface of our complex human life,
Time smiles uncertainly on the lips of Mystery.