Running late

My heart was running late. My heart
may never have loitered if there had been love;
but since, if there was, it was in vain from the start,
it's irrelevant if there was love on which to embark.
It lingered. Then, in having no use, it was done.

This counterfeit heart in my possession
pretends to be mine. If it had felt love's presence.
then maybe, in a raw burst of self-selection,
it could have sparked itself into existence:
jump-start, from nothing, its inception.

But no. Neither I, nor my heart, seem
to be more than a passing vestige
between a vain yearning and a vain dream.
Partners in legerdemain, fools alchemy,
we both fell through a gap in the seams.
This was our life and our passage.

Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935)
(translation by Prontobard (2023)