Trees of the Alentejo

In the dead hours, kneeling by the foot of O Monte,

the plain is a furnace… and in protest

the tormented, bleeding trees

cry out to God for the blessing of a spring!

And when, at high noon, the sun embroiders

the burning broom with gold, along the lanes,

the trees, sphynx-like and dishevelled,

stencil their tragic silhouettes on the horizon!

Trees! Hearts, souls that weep,

souls just like mine, souls that plead

in vain for a remedy for such sorrow!

Trees, don’t weep! Look and see:

I’m also crying out in thirst,

asking God for my drop of water!

Translated by Simon Park for