Fog
Fog has his life suspended
like two beautiful breasts before the eyes,
humidity so contrary to rain,
to days when shelter is sought
even in a lie or in the past.
This whiteness not allowing him to see
as if it wouldn’t be possible
to die or to stay alive,
stronger than his morals,
will delay him to his destiny,
with the idea of punishment
for not having slept home.
For hypocrisy is the one thing
that endures in the fog.
There aren’t even the hours of pleasure,
of entertainment at least,
and truly lived last night
with the girl who moaned
as if lying or as if the truth
wasn’t but a fleeting moment.
In the fog only care is needed,
not to let the car hit the curb,
to keep all lights on
and go slow, hoping
others will do the same.
in O Tabaco De Deus, Cotovia, 2002
Translated by Rui Parada