NOTA: Este poema constitui uma espécie de fulcro de Mensagem. Inicia-se em 1578 com a partida de D.Sebastião, entre sinais de mau presságio, para Marrocos. A nau com a sua bandeira içada nunca mais voltou e o embarque de D.Sebastião torna-se místico pelo seu desaparecimento material e comparável ao do Rei Artur, após a batalha de Camlan, para a Ilha Encantada de Avalon ("a que ilha indescoberta aportou?"). Com o desaparecimento de D.Sebastião morre, aparentemente, o sonho de um império universal sob o seu ceptro. Neste momento Fernando Pessoa, que até agora se tinha referido ao passado de Portugal, diz, num aparte, que o futuro é por vezes intuível aos homens e passa imediatamente a contar a sua visão do porvir. A Última Nau volta e trás um vulto (O Desejado) que Pessoa assemelha a D.Sebastião, que vem retomar a caminhada para o império universal- já não material, mas espiritual- que será o Quinto Império sonhado pelo Padre António Vieira.
English version
An introduction to the poem: This eleventh poem of Mar Português starts with King Sebastian leaving Lisbon for Morocco in 1578, under a sky of ill-omen. The ship flying his colours will be the Last Galleon because after the battle of El-Ksar-el-Kebir, in which the young king disappeared, there was no longer the possibility of a worldwide Portuguese empire. But King Sebastian's death on the battleground was never confirmed. The ship that carries him may be at sea, though it was never seen again. Did it carry him to an unknown island, like King Arthur was carried to Avalon after the battle of Camlan? Remarking that the future is sometimes revealed to visionaries (like himself) Pessoa brings the reader abruptly to the time of his writing, as if he had woken up from a dream of the past, only to fall immediately in a dream of the future: he now sees King Sebastian returning and still bent on accomplishing an Universal Empire...
The Last Galleon
Carrying aboard King Don Sebastian,
And raising atop, like a motto, the pennant
Of Empire,
The last galleon sailed away, under a sun of ill-omen
Forsaken, 'mid weeping of anxiety and ominous
Mystery.
It never returned. To what undiscovered island
Did it call? Will it ever return from the unknown fate
It met?
God hides the body and the shape of the future
But His light projects it, a dream clouded
And brief.
Ah, the more the people is dispirited,
The more my Atlantic soul lifts up
And overspreads,
And in me, in a sea without time or space,
I see through the thick fog your dim outline
Returning.
I know not the hour, but I know there is one,
Even if God delays it, or the soul calls it
Mystery.
You rise in the sun within me and the mist ends:
The same, and you are still carrying the pennant
Of Empire.
NOTA: Ver também a tradução de 1997 do Prof. Mike Harland AQUI (que eu li antes de produzir a versão acima).
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