O poeta é um fingidor

What we pretend is really what is true.

Unlike the wise, the poet sees the real,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

We know the struggles of each life ensue 

from being born, since all the days reveal:

What we pretend is really what is true.

Each maker knows, regardless of the view,

that what we dream as pain is what we truly feel,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

What he perceived was never what he knew,

not one of us saw iron become steel.

What we pretend is really what is true, 

yet he discovers that there’s no way through 

the actual, but he’s no mind to kneel, 

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

So when he sees forces of life renew

themselves each day, so what exists is real,

what we pretend is really what is true,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue