Viúvas

Passo pelas viúvas de manhã quando venho para o comboio...vão à padaria, ou à praça, as mais modernas ao café.
Todas elas perderam as cores e são baças e apagadas. Andam curvadas, como se o que as mantinha erguidas, lhes tivesse sido arrancado de dentro.
São como as flores, ainda no ramo, mas já passado o esplendor, esperando, esperando...

I see the widows in the morning, when I rush to the train...they go to the baker's, the market or even, the more modern ones, to the coffee.
All of them colourless, withdrawn, almost invisible. They walk bended, as if what made them stood, was ripped from inside them.
They're like flowers, still in the plant, but past their splendor, waiting, waiting...