With dubious weights I put myself
To the scales refused until today.
It is time to know what is worth more:
If to judge, to absent, or to be judged.
I put on a flat plate what I am,
Matter, nothing else, that makes me,
The passing dream, the despair
Of grabbing violently or neglectfully
This shadow that is counting my days;
I put on the little life, the vile body,
Natural betrayals and reluctances,
I put on what love, its urgency,
The pleasure of passing among the stars,
The certainty of being only would I have
If it were you to weigh me, poetry.
[ José Saramago, "Balança", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]
