We’ve worn our words to death,
when now I say: my love,
nothing happens, absolutely nothing.
And yet, before the words were spent,
I’m certain
that everything trembled
at the mere murmur of your name
in the silence of my heart.

Now we have nothing to give.
There is nothing within you
that asks me for water.
The past is useless as a rag.
And I’ve told you already: the words are spent.

Good-bye.

Auteur: Eugénio de Andrade