Hoje ainda, mesmo agora, pensei escrever
a vidraça baça e húmida que atormenta o dia.
Desisti.
Risquei caneta em rimas, procurei, afoito, tema
Que medrasse fácil, que de letras gravitasse,
só por si…
Ensimesmei, puxei cabelo e sobrancelhas,
cofiei barba…inútil busca, vã a espera,
Concluí.
De poeta, (e se eu queria) , não me dá  arte.
Melhor será que te compre um livro,
decidi,
talvez assim te possa contar histórias
de barcos, deuses  e mar, como  aquelas que
nunca li.

Today, just a short while ago,  I thought I would write

the dull and damp windowpane that upsets the day.

I gave up.

I wrote and wrote the odd rhyme, boldly looked for a theme

That would easily grow, gravitating in words,

All by itself…

I introspected,   pulled hair and eyebrow

smoothed the beard… useless quest, hopeless wait

I concluded.

Of a poet (and how did I want it…) I don’t have the art.

It’s better that I buy you a book,

I decided,

maybe I’ll be then able to tell you stories

of boats, gods and sea, just like those

I never read.