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Prefiro a lama à troca de mãos. Conhecerei o prazer do abraço se souber do desconforto do abandono. Lamentarei a chegada da dor se um dia tiver sentido os benefícios do amor. Não chegarei a gostar do céu se na terra não estiver por uma vez prostrado. Prefiro a lama à troca de mãos. (Oldmirror)

Sometimes the sky's too bright,

Or has too many clouds or birds,

And far away's too sharp a sun

To nourish thinking of him.

Why is my hand too blunt

To cut in front of me

My horrid images for me,

Of over-fruitfull smiles,

The weightless touching of the lip

I wish to know

I cannot lift, but can,

The creature with the angel's face

Who tells me hurt,

And sees my body go

Down into misery?

No stopping. Put the smile

Where tears have come to dry.

The angel's hurt is left;

His telling burns.

Sometimes a woman's heart has salt,

Or too much blood;

I tear her breast,

And see the blood is mine,

Flowing from her, but mine,

And then I think

Perhaps the sky's too bright;

And watch my hand,

But do not follow it,

And feel the pain it gives,

But do not ache.

- Dylan Thomas