Category Archives: e-books

I was transformed into a rock of salt, because I questioned Your power.

I was transformed into
a rock of salt,
because I questioned
Your power.

I was trasformed into
A cloud, a dark cloud
because I questioned
Your beauty.
I was transformed into
an perpetual wave,
Searching for your presence
everywhere upon the face of the Earth,
because… I questioned
You existance…

and now,
You have extended my search of You among
the furtherst away stars, and dark spaces in the Universe…
Will I find You?
Will I like You?

By George Bost.
(Copyright 2016)
Long Beach, California.

Acuarelă (Minulescu) – Wikisource (in orasu-n care ploua de trei ori pe saptamana…)

de Ion Minulescu

Claudiei Millian

În orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână
Orășenii, pe trotuare,
Merg ținându-se de mână,
Și-n orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână,
De sub vechile umbrele, ce suspină
Și se-ndoaie,
Umede de-atâta ploaie,
Orășenii pe trotuare
Par păpuși automate, date jos din galantare.

În orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână
Nu răsună pe trotuare
Decât pașii celor care merg ținându-se de mână,
În gând
Cadența picăturilor de ploaie,
Ce coboară din umbrele,
Din burlane
Și din cer
Cu puterea unui ser
Dătător de viață lentă,
Și absentă…

În orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână
Un bătrân și o bătrână ―
Două jucării stricate ―
Merg ținându-se de mână…

Ion Minulescu Aquarela (in orasu-n care ploua de trei ori pe saptamana)

Ion Minulescu Aquarela (in orasu-n care ploua de trei ori pe saptamana)

Watch “Albert Camus – Discours de réception du prix Nobel, 1957” on YouTube


??????????? Answered (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa): “Time is capricious, love unclaimed transcends.”

????????????? Answered (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Love, love, love,
is it love,
if one cannot embrace human vanity
or is it just plain silliness?
Should love be sang, declared,
or deep in one’s heart vault be contained,
not like in a prison cell, but like
a precious ore not yet uncovered, claimed, explored…
not yet EXPLOITED, by anyone,
ever so well unclaimed,
it shines like the sum of all suns

Time is capricious, love unclaimed transcends.
(Posted Here )

Haiku:  Memories (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Haiku: Memories

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Like clothes on clotheslines

Washed off a little each time:

Memories drying.

Thank You: to all followers of euzicasa! I promise all and each and everyone of you a great time while visiting this website!

Thank You: to all followers of euzicasa! I promise all and each and everyone of you a great time while  visiting this website!

Thank You: to all followers of euzicasa! I promise all and each and everyone of you a great time while visiting this website!

Watch “Cannery Row Audio Full” on YouTube ( EBook of Clepsydra, by Camilo Pessanha) translation in English by Google Translate

EBook of Clepsydra, by Camilo Pessanha

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Clepsydra, by Camilo Pessanha

This eBook is for use by anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
reuse it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at

Title: Clepsydra
Camillo Pessanha’s Poems

Author: Camilo Pessanha

Release Date: August 16, 2007 [EBook # 22330]

Language: Portuguese

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


Produced by Tiago Tejo






All rights reserved

Composite and Printed: Tip. from T. da Espera, 26





LISBON – 1920


I saw the light in a lost country.
My soul is languid and defenseless.
Oh! Who could slide without noise!
On the ground disappear like a worm …


Complicated tattoos of my chest:
–Trophéos, emblems, two winged lions …
More, among wreathed hearts,
A huge, superb, pansy …

And my big guy … You have to gold in a barracks
Red, a lys; there is a maiden in the other,
In blue field, silver the body, that one
Which is on my arm like a buckler.

Timbre: breaking, the megalomania …
Motto: ouch, – that insists night and day
Remembering ruins, shallow graves …

Among battling mountain castles,
And eagles in black, unfurling the waters,
What a gold necklace of besantes!


I struggled to try your secret:
In your colorless look, – cold escalpello, –
My gaze broke, debating it,
Like the wave on the crest of a rock.

Segrêdo of that soul and my degraded
And my obsession! To drink it
I was your oscular lip, in a nightmare,
For nights of dread, full of fear.

And my fiery, allucinated oscule,
Chilled over the right marble
From this parted cold lip …

From that discrete marble lip,
Severe as a closed grave,
Serene as a quiet pelago.


He is declaiming a deceased comic,
A platea laughs, madly,
Of the good hock … And there is a smell in the environment
Crypta and dust, – from the anachronic assumption.

Change the record, here’s a barcarola:
Lilies, lilies, river waters, the moon …
Before Your body the dream my fluctua
About a country, – ecstatic corolla.

Change again: gorgeios, refrain
D’a gold bugle – the smell of jonquil,
Lively and agro! – touching the dawn …

Ceased. And, loving, the soul of the horns
It was now dewy and veiled.
Spring. Morning. What an effluvium of violets!

It descends in tender leafs to collina:
–In glaucos, loose sleeping tones,
That they were fresh, my eyes stinging,
In which the rage’s flame declines …

Oh come, in white, – from the foliage immo!
The branches, take your hand away.
Oh come on! My eyes want to marry you
Reflect you virgin to the serene image.

From crazy bush a slippery stem
How delicate she danced on a finger
With a bright pink quiver! …

Slight skirt … Sweet breeze impelle her …
Oh come on! In white! From the end of the grove …
Soul of sylpho, camellia meat …

Slum arises! It comes from the waters, naked,
By throbbing an alvinitente shell!
The flexible kidneys and the chilling breast …
My mouth dies for kissing yours.

Without vile shame! What should be ashamed of?
Here I am beautiful, young and chaste, strong.
So white the chest! – to expose it to Death …
But now — the infamous one! —Don’t stand before you.

The clumsy hydra! … What a strangle …
Against the rock where your head is,
With the hair dripping water,

Go bend over, faint in love,
Under the fervor of my virginity
And my young gladiator pulse.

After the lucta and after the conquest
I was alone! It was an anthipathic act!
Deserted Island, and on the water table
All green, green, – out of sight.

Because you were, my caravels,
Loaded up with all my thesoiro?
–Long webs of golden llama moonlight,
Diamond subtitles of the stars!

Who undid you, inconsistent forms,
For whose love I climbed the wall,
“Armed lion, a sword in your teeth?”

Happy are you, O battle slain!
Dreams, back to back, eyes open
Reflecting the stars, gaping …

Who polluted, who tore my linen cloths,
Where I expected to die, my chaste scarves?
From my garden I demand the high turns
Who ripped them off and threw them on the way?

Who broke (what a cruel and simian fury!)
The table of me supper, – pine board?
And spread me the wood? And spilled my wine?
–From my vineyard the acidified and fresh wine …

O my poor mother! … Do not rise from the grave,
Look at the night, look at the wind. In ruin the new house …
From my bones the fire is going out soon.

Don’t come home anymore. Don’t tramp anymore.
My mother’s soul … Don’t walk in the snow anymore,
At night begging at the doors of the houses.

O my heart goes back
Where are you running from, crazy?
My burning eyes that the sinned
Burned … Return hours of peace.

Bend the elms of the roads from the snow,
The ash cooled on the solid.
Nights of the mountains, the shack …
“Look at my eyes like two old men …”

Extensive springtime evokes them:
“Already will blossom the apple orchard,
We have to decorate the Mayan hats–

Socegae, cool, feverish eyes.
–And we will go sing in the last
Litany … Sweet senile voices …–

The wild roses bloomed by mistake
In winter: the wind came to defolate them …
What scismas, honey? Why do you call me
The voices you just fooled me with?

Crazy Castellos! So early cahistes! …
Where we go, oblivious to the thought,
Holding hands? Your eyes, what a moment
They scrutinized mine, how sad they are!

And upon us the snow falls,
Deaf, triumpho, petal, slightly
Putting the floor together on the ice acropolis …

Around your figure is like a video!
Who sprinkles them – how much flower– from the CEO,
About us, about our hair?

And here is what remains of the finished idyllio,
“It will last a moment …”
How far the convent mornings go!
“From the cheerful abandoned little convent …”

It’s all over … Anemones, hydrangeas.
Silindras, – flowers so our friends!
In the cloister now the ortigas beat,
Snakes roam the old ponds.

About the registration of your deldo name!
“That my eyes can barely spell,”
Cançados … And the withered aroma

May it evolve from your common name!
The silence of oblivion ennobled him.
O sweet, naive, grave inscription.

Singra the ship. Under clear water
You see the seabed of fine sand …
–Imprecable pilgrim figure,
The endless distance that separates us!

Pebbles of the lighter porcelain,
Faintly pink shells,
In cold luminous transparency
They lie deep under the flat water.

And the sight probe, reconstructs, compares.
So many wrecks, wrecks, wrecks!
–O gleaming vision, beautiful lie!

Little roses that the tide had gone …
Teeth that reciprocate it will wear …
Shells, pebbles, pieces of bones …

It was a day of useless agonies.
Sunny day, flooded with sunshine! …
The cold swords flashed naked …
Sunny day, flooded with sunshine! …

It was a day of false joy.
Dahlia flaying, – his molle smile …
The ranches of the pilgrimages returned.
Dahlia flaying, – his molle smile …

More impressionable day than the other days.
So lucid … So pallido … So lucid! …
Diffuse of theoremas, of theorias …

The day futil more than the other days!
Minute of discreet ironies …
So lucid … So pallido … So lucid! …

The autumn has passed, already makes the cold …
“Fall from your hurt laugh.”
Winter algid! I oblique the sun, cold …
“The sun, and the clear waters of the river.”

Clear waters of the river! River waters,
Fleeing under my tired gaze,
Where do you take me my care?
Where are you going, my empty heart?

Ficae cabellos d’ella, floating,
And under the fleeting waters,
Your eyes open and scisendo …

Where are you going to run, melancholy?
–And, refracted, long waving,
Your translucent cold hands …

When I came back I found my steps
Still fresh on the damp sand,
The fugitive hour, recalls,
“So redivative!” in my dull eyes …

Bleary eyes from contained tears.
–Little steps, because you screwed
Thus misled, and afterwards you have become
To the point of the first goodbyes?

Where you went without a wind, in the wind,
Around, like birds in an avian,
Until the azita is gone …

All this long track – for what?
If the tide will come to you,
Like the new track that starts …

Retinal images
Why do you not stare from my eyes?
What are you passing like crystalline water
For a source never again! …

Or to the dark lake where it ends
Your course, silent of junctions,
And the vague anguished fear rules,
“Because you’re going without me, won’t you take me?”

Without you, what are my eyes open?
“The useless mirror, my pagan eyes!”
Aridity of successive deserts …

It is even a shadow of my hands,
Casual flexing of my uncertain fingers,
Weird shadow in vain movements.


When will the upright rise,
Again, from the ruined castello,
And there will be shouts and flags
In the cold morning breeze?

Will you hear the rebate play
About the abandoned plain?
And we will go to combat
With a coat and helmet and the long sword?

When will we go, sad and serious,
In the long and vain strife,
Letting oaths, improper,
By the currency and subtitles?

And we’ll be back, the old ones
And purissimos handlers,
(How many jobs and dangers!)
Almost dead and winners?

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

And when, O Doc Infanta Real,
Will you smile at the belveder?
–Magra stained glass figure,
For whom we went to fight …

I don’t know if this is love. I look for your look,
If any pain hurts me, seeking a shelter;
And in spite of that, believe! I never thought of a home
Where you were happy, and I happy with you.

For you I never cried any broken ideal.
And I never wrote you any romantic verses.
Not even after waking up I looked for you in bed
As the sensual wife of Cantico of canticos.

If it’s loving you, I don’t know. I don’t know if I idealized you
Your healthy color, your tender smile,
But I feel smile to see that smile
That penetrates me well, like this winter sun.

I spend with you the afternoon and always without fear
Of the twilight light, which unnerves, that provokes.
I do not take long to look at the curve of your breast
I didn’t even remember kissing you in the mouth anymore.

I don’t know if it’s love. It will be maybe start …
I don’t know what change my present soul …
Love, I don’t know if it is, but I know I shudder,
Maybe I got sick of knowing you were sick.

Drumming in a hurry,
And wobbly.
Bonet next door,

Garboso the drum
Advance around
From the field of love …

Hard, soldier!
The bent step!
Well wobbled!

Loves puff you.
May the girls kiss you.
May the boys envy you.

But there, O soldier!
O sad alienated!
However exalted

May the touch complain,
No one to call you …
No one who loves you …

To my heart an iron weight
I will arrest on the turn of the sea.
To my heart an iron weight …
Throw it overboard.

Who goes on board, who goes offended …
The feathers of love do not want to carry …
Sailors, I lifted the heavy vault,
Throw it overboard.

And I will sell a silver clasp.
My heart is the sealed vault.
The seven keys: there is a letter inside …
“The last one, before your engagement.”

The seven keys, – the enchanted letter!
And an embroidered handkerchief … I’ll take it,
Which is for wetting it in saltwater
The day I finally stop crying …


There is a murmur of complain in the room,
Of love desires, of these pills …
A sparse tenderness of bleating,
It feels like a fading perfume.

Honeysuckle withers in the brush
And the aroma that they exhale through space,
Has delusions of fat and tiredness
Nervous, feminine, sweet.

They feel spasms, agonias d’ave,
Inaprehensiveis, minimal, serene …
“I have your small hands in my hands.”
My gaze on your soft gaze.

Your hands so white with anemia …
Your eyes so sweet with sadness …
–This is the languishing of nature,
This vague suffer from the end of the day.

If you walked in the garden,
What a smell of jasmine!
So white in the moonlight!

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Behold, I have it with me.
Overdue, it’s mine anyway
After so much dreaming …

Why do I grieve like this?
It wasn’t her, but
(What I wanted to hug),

Garden time …
The aroma of jasmine …
The moonlight wave …

After the golden wedding,
From the promised time,
I don’t know how bad it is now
It made my life late …

I have to return …
And it misses me …
“But to remind me
I don’t know that pain invades me.

I don’t even want to go on,
Walk new paths,
My poor feet, dorir,
Already purple of thorns.

Neither stay … and die …
Lose you, vague image …
Cease … No more seeing you …
As a light goes out …

My heart goes down,
An extinguished balloon …
–Best it burned,
In the dark, set on fire.

In the fastidient mist,
Like a grave coffin …
–Because it doesn’t blow before
Of violent pain and new ?!

What apprehension still holds him?
Atom wretched …
–If the train smashed
D’a train panting! …

The inane, vile spoil
From the selfish and weak soul!
Brought him the sea of red
Take him in the hangover.

Chorae Arcades
From the video player!
Winged Bridges
Nightmare …

From which they fly,
Whites, the bows …
Fall apart,
In the river, the boats.

Slings, hiccups
Weeping Tails …
What ruins, (listen)!
If they look,
What a sink!

Wobbly stars …
Lacustrine solids …
–Mails and masts …
And the alabaster
From the balusters!

Broken ballot boxes!
Ice blocks …
–Chorae arcades,
From the viôloncello.


Only, incessantly, a flute sound cries,
Widow, gracile, in the quiet darkness,
–Perfect voice that exiles from among the most,
“Sound parties masking the time.”

In the orgy, far away, that in scintilla flares
And the white lips of the carmine deflate …
Only, incessantly, a flute sound cries,
She was gracious in the quiet darkness.

And the orchestra? And the kisses? All night out,
Caution, stop. Only modulated track
The flute flute … Who’s going to do it?
Who knows why you regret it without reason?

Only, incessantly, a flute sound cries …


From under the square quadrangle
From the fresh land that will swell me,

And after much rain,
When the herb spreads with the oblong,

Still, friend, the same look of mine
He will go humble across the sea,

Wrap you up in tender price,
Like that of a poor grateful dog.

Weak voice that you pass,
What a humbling moan
I don’t know what misfortunes …

It would be said that you ask.
One would say that you tremble,
United to the walls,

If you come in the dark,
Trust me in the ear
I don’t know what bitterness …

Sighs or fallas?
Because it’s the moan,
The breath you exhale?

One would say that you pray.
Murmurs softly
I don’t know what sadness …

“Being your mate?”
I do not know the way.
I’m foreign.

“Past love?”
Cheer up, say
I don’t know what terrors …

Finhainha, delirious.
–Happy projects? –
Sighs. Expires.

In jail the bandits arrested!
Your air of contemplatives!
What’s the beasts with burning eyes ?!
Poor of your captivating eyes.

They walk dumb between the bars,
They look like fish in an aquarium.
–Florid Field of Saudades
Why tumultuous shoots?

Serene … Serene … Serene …
Brought them handcuffed to escort.
–Extreme bowl of poisons
My heart always in revolt.

Heart, quiet … quiet …
Why do you rise up and blaspheme?
Pschiu … Don’t hit … Slowly …
Look at the soldiers, the handcuffs!


O virtuous colors that lie underground,
–Blue, red hemoptyse flares,
Glow dams, vesanias chromatic–,
In the limbo where you await the light that baptizes you,

The eyelashes are cerrae, anxious not veiled.

Aborts that overhang the cider fronts,
So serious to scismar, in the mouths of museums,
And listening to the water running in the clepsydra,
Vaguely smile, resigned and atheus,

Cease to think, the abyss do not probe.

Moaning coo from unreached dreams,
That all night long, sweet souls pining,
And the lacerations on the edge of the roofs,
And in the wind exhales in a soft whine,

Fall asleep. Do not sigh. Do not breathe.

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