What´s that which all love more than live,
Fear more than death or mortal strife?
That which contented men desire,
The poor possess, the rich require,
The miser spends, the spendthrift saves,
And all men carry to their graves?

NOTHING


Fernando Pessoa

When your mind is born
Give me an eye of sadness
Because life becomes death
In your core of sweet madness

(VL, Carcavelos, 1997)

Epitaph

Here lieth AS
Whom God and man left in the lurch
And nature mocked with pain an woe
He believed not in state or church
Nor in God, woman, man or love
Not earth below, nor heav'n above.
His knowledge did to this abut:
(...) and love is rut
Nothing is anywere sincere
Save sorrow, hatred, lust and fear

Alexander Search