The sky tears apart,
lets the water pass into the world.
And an odour of fear covers the slope,
with the anxious noises of animals
and the petty sadness of men,
reminiscent of a hunting day.
The last blow on firewood,
the hasty steps in the mud.
Who opens the door of the house
lets in
the image of the sky
which has macerated all day.
Brings to the table the hands
that hid in the earth
and became roots.
Hands that rest not,
hold the face
under the water of skies.
(Unpublished)
Translated by Rui Parada