I write this to thy memory, my love, who art not dead,
And to the memory of that love we never knew to have.

I was the elder, you were the younger, and we were boys.
Had we known how to love, we would have loved each other.
Had we guessed that love's way, we would have found its joys,
But we were boys and we loved each other as brother to brother.

Yes, if I met thee today, perhaps it would be the same.
Now I am shamed to be what erst I knew not I was.

Perhaps what happened was best - that pure white flame
Of out love caught not our senses to flame more yet worse.

Do you remember me and feel aught like this?

Today I know it were best if we had been lovers,
Today I know, but can care no longer.

Thou wert graceful and fair. I was neither: I loved.

The taint is deeper in me of this ancient disease
That only the Greeks made beautiful, because themselves beautiful were.

[Fernando Pessoa, inédito, c. 1916.]