Ser poeta não é una ambição minha,
É a minha maniera de estar sozinho
Fernando Pessoa

Before I leave you to descend to Hell,
There is something I believe to be true.
As great art flirts with imagination
And a well-crafted story chooses you
The next chapter instead of a night's sleep,
Finely distilled verse is a lure beyond
Dreams and nightmares; to filthy fairytales
Where princess's smile and magician's wand
Become of souls tortured by frustration,
Reducing themselves to entertainment:
Obvious; without useful function; cheap.
I suggest that you resist, as payment
For poetry under duress is blackmail.
But why make pictures of myself? To sell?