Like a large blot of smudged fire
The setting sun lingers in the clouds that remain.
I hear a faint whistle in the distance of the still evening.
It must be a distant train.
In this moment I feel a vague nostalgia
Along with a vague and placid desire
That comes and goes.
So too, sometimes, on the surface of streams,
There are bubbles of water
That appear and then pop.
And they have no meaning
But to be bubbles of water
That appear and then pop.
- Fernando Pessoa