A poem by Fernando Pessoa: «O menino de sua mãe», translated to English

On the abandoned plain
Warmed by the tepid breeze,
Run through by bullets
- Two, from side to side -,
Lies dead, and cools.

Blood stripes his uniform.
Arms outstretched,
Niveous, blond, blood-drained,
Gazes with a languid look
Blindly at the lost skies.

So young! How young he was!
(Now how old is He?)
An only child, his mother had given him
A name that she kept always
"His mother's little boy".

Felled from his pocket
A small cigarette box.
Given to him by Mother. It is whole
And good, the cigarette box,
It is he who is no longer wholesome.

From another pocket, winged
Tip grazing the earth,
The sheathed whiteness
Of a handkerchief...Given to him by the old maid
Who carried him on her lap.

Far away, at home, there is a pray:
"May he return soon, and well!"
- Meshes that the Empire weaves!
Lies dead and rots,
Mother's little boy.