There Is No Safe Standard To Tell

In The Ordinary Jumble Of My Literary Drawer, I Sometimes Find Texts I Wrote Ten, Fifteen, Or Even More Years Ago. And Many Of Them Seem To Me Written By A Stranger: I Simply Do Not Recognize Myself In Them. There Was A Person Who Wrote Them, And It Was I. I Experienced Them, But It Was In Another Life, From Which I Just Woke Up, As If From Someone Else's Dream.

But I Am Not Perfect In My Way Of Putting Things Because I Lack The Divine Simplicity Of Being Only What I Appear To Be.

God Gave The Sea The Danger And The Abyss, But It Was In It That He Mirrored The Sky.

My Homeland Is The Portuguese Language.

Having Touched Christ's Feet Is Not An Excuse For Punctuation Mistakes.