My Father

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MY FATHER

my father sets stakes in the backyard.
at his age he still lifts the tangled rows of peas,
the strawberries, and the white blossoms of the plum tree,
and later the beautiful, heavy bodies of its fruit.
he crouches, in silence, mending wire threads,
braiding and unbraiding the pumpkin ropes.
sometimes, toward nightfall, he keeps tying
and untying knots,
always crouched, always with his back turned.
if we offer him a word, water, a handful of walnuts,
he raises a hand in quiet protest.
why does my father work so much.
to whom does he wish to pass, with such pain,
his stakes lifted to the sky.
what does his weary tongue say, full of hints,
already hungry – I want to believe – for eternity

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Poem by João Ricardo Lopes | Translated by Marcus Margrave (2026)

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