14 MAY 1994, Page 34

This

(after Fernando Pessoa)

They say it's fake or lying All that I write. But no. I only imagine Whatever is there to feel. Don't use the heart at all.

All that I do or dream, That fails or finishes, Are like terraces Set over something else. That's where beauty is.

That's why I write between What's neither here nor real, Free from my own confusion, Serious about no thing.

Feel? Let the reader feel!

David Wright