Four Poems of Alberto Caeiro

Metaphysics enough in not thinking of anything.
What's my idea of the world?
Who knows?
But if I fell ill, I'd think of it.

What's my notion of things?
My ideas concerning cause and effect?
My ruminations on God and the soul and the entire
    creation?
I don't know. For me, thinking about such things is
    like shutting the eyes
And not thinking - like drawing the curtains
Of my window (supposing it had any curtains).

The mystery of things? What mystery?
There's only one mystery: folk thinking about mystery.
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