XXXIV by Alberto Caeiro aka Fernando Pessoa

XXXIX

The mystery of things, where is it?
Where is the thing that doesn’t appear
At least to show us it’s a mystery?

What does a river know about this and what does a tree know?
And I, who am no more than those, what do I know?
Every time I look at things and think about what men think about them,
I laugh like how a brook sounds cool on a stone.
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