A few years before you had met. I remember we talked
much of your city, Nazareth, and its fishing village,
on the Portuguese coast.
You are a protagonist of that story that still does not end.
You keep the passage of time and you keep something only yours, a
long hat that falls on the neck.
You look with an air of nostalgia to the sea in which you have made your life.
Your eyes are half open, accustomed to mitigate the reflection
of the sun. Nose of high wing that marks a soft grimace, we could
think that something has been missing or maybe you remember work
that has marked the traces on your face.
I have seen you sitting on the beach, on a sunset, surrounded by
sweet breeze and so I can see you now.
Contrast your strength and vigor in a fund that I always say
that is my pudding, something that trembles and melts without effort.
You exist forever and you make us see your satisfaction of being
today, above all, a man of the sea.
MONCHOLC, until today. P. 66.