Visiting the Tomb of John Keats

[Lcastro]

Versos no túmulo de John Keats

Não foi nas águas o teu nome escrito
Mas nos reinos secretos da beleza.
Se na morte se cala o peito aflito
Em verso há de ficar a chama acesa.

Pirâmides não medem tua grandeza
E nem mesmo as palavras que recito,
Odes tão puras, furtam -me à surpresa
De um silêncio maior do que o infinito

Nada somos,aqui. Só a Arte existe.
Cedo soubeste essa verdade triste
Cedo te foste, sob a luz e o sol.

E entre as gregas figuras do teu sono,
Junto aos ciprestes, brilha o mesmo outono
E canta para sempre o rouxinol.

Roma, Cimitero degli inglesi, 23 de dezembro de 2016

[Saturn]

Thanks for the poem Lcastro, sadly my [Spanish?] is non existent.

This is primarily an English language forum; so for those of us who can't understand it, can someone translate this?

[Ravenwing]

This is C-3PO's English language translation of Lcastro's sonnet: https://translate.google.ca/?hl=en&tab= ... 0de%202016

Is it true that "Only Art exists"? How many of you doth feel more alive than usual when dancing, singing, or composing poems?

[Saturn]

Thanks ravenwing.

Personally I think there is an elevated or exalted state of mind I find when writing, or creating something, playing an instrument etc, a feeling that the mind is being used for it's greatest fulfilment, not art just for art's sake but an innate urge we have to compose, make and please ourselves and others with original creations.

We are above all a practical species, evolution is a prime example of our resilience and problem solving ability, but we have always from the very earliest glimmerings of humankind felt the urge to mould things which are not practical, but beautiful or interesting, or which express something else.