The boy of his mother In the left plain What the lukewarm breeze heats, Of bullets crossed – Two, of side by side–, Lie killed, and it cools. Him the uniform shines the blood. Of spread out arms, Target, blond, bloodless, It stares in spite of looking langue And I blind the lost skies. So young! what a young era! (Now that age has?) Only child, the mother had given to him A name and it had maintained it: « The boy of his mother ». It him fell of the pocket The short cigarette case. The mother had given to him. It is whole And good to cigarette case, It is him that does not serve already. Of another pocket, hauled It works as a prompter clearing the ground, The hemmed whiteness Of a scarf... The servant Gave It to Him Old woman who brought it to the lap. There far, at home, there is the prayer: « What returns early, and well! » (Meshes what the Empire weaves!) Lie killed, and it rots, The boy of his mother. Fernando Pessoa (Contemporary, 3rd series, nº 1, 1926) (Berlin)