THE BICYCLE THIEF - VITTORIO DE SICA (1948) Poem by José Miguel Silva

500 miles per day pedaled my father, from his bed
near the Douro River to the booming ceramicware
plant of Valadares. If all men, from birth,
are given some sixty enemies per hour,
imagine a life cycling to and from a factory.
One effort after another: the rosary of frost covering
clusters of broom, a newspaper battered by the wind,
the greenness of Spring, the dusty sweat on each hand.

My father, to be sure, never complains. He earns five
dollars a day and has a small house and big dreams
of gas-powered tomorrows. "At least I don't work
in a slaughterhouse", he thinks, and with good reason,
standing tall on the pedals of his shadowy vehicle,
a solitary cyclist climbing the slope at Avintes. He doesn't
work in a slaughterhouse. And with that solace
he rides past the Quinta dos Frades, reaches Freixieiro,
and hears the rumble of the smoky trucks on the highway,
where the ride, at last, will be much smoother.