Sou Como Um Livro

I was flipping through my journal recently and found an old poem in Portuguese that I’ve always loved:

Sou como um livro. Há quem me interprete pela capa. Há quem me ame apenas por ela. Há quem viaje em mim. Há quem viaje comigo. Há quem não me entende. Há quem nunca tentou. Há quem sempre quis ler-me. Há quem nunca se interessou. Há quem leu e não gostou. Há quem leu e se apaixonou. Há quem apenas busca em mim palavras de consolo. Há quem só perceba teoria e objetividade. Mas, tal como um livro, sempre trago algo de bom em mim.

My own translation:

I’m like a book. There are those who judge me by the cover. There are those who love me only for it. There are those who travel inside me. There are those who travel with me. There are those who don’t understand me. There are those who never tried. There are those who have always wanted to read me. There are those who were never interested. There are those who read and didn’t like. There are those who read and fell in love. There are those who searched inside me for words of comfort. There are those who only perceived theory and objectivity. But, just like a book, I always carry something good in me.

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