Tell me now this, my heart,
joana meirim
The poem is therefore not merely about syntactic prowess. It is indeed about the intellectual depths of Bernardim and Sá de Miranda, to the extent that (mainly) the latter display the impossible skill of examining themselves as if they were outside looking in. To me, a reader who is utterly incapable of performing such a complex philosophical operation (although I acknowledge its utility, as it would certainly save many appointments with psychologists), this is an admirable feat. And all this in a poem which appears to be so unpretentious, so short and written in such a casual manner. Thus, I like this poem because it is only apparently simple (very few can write something which is simple but only apparently); and because this simplicity conveys “an emotion”, to invoke what Rasputine told Corto Maltese after, funnily enough, he tried to kill him.
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