The wind blew hard this afternoon in Cascais
whirls of dry soil, the dust, smarted eyes
Not much fun walking around doing nothing
looking into shop windows of expensive dresses
A barber shop was still open, and a barber with
scissors in his hand looked haughty, challenging
me to enter, oh, no, my man, my wife cuts my hair
I hate having a haircut, a few strands of hair left
on my scalp, may not grow back.
Horses turn their back to the wind, and I had to
face the blast going home.
I sat on the terrace, looking at the sea that
was greenish today; I don't look at the ocean
often having seen the sea until tedium
while waiting for the potatoes to boil.
But I do remember the Caribbean Sea, with
a dulcet smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem