Antiga Palavra (The Ancient Word)

The love that flows
down my arms, and, into my hands, goes;
the distant smile of the boys, who flock,
hanging on the dock,
bring back that grandfather,
crossing himself, that grandfather,
to me, all fishermen?s master.
He could tame a storm
of any shape or form,
that grandfather, my grandfather...
One day? he sailed away,
across the sea, so far away...
Sometimes, I hear his voice whispering in my ear
an ancient word, as he stands on the bow,
with the choppy sea bellow,
crossing himself with his magic knife,
that grandfather,
the all fishermen?s master of my life.
He could cut through a storm
of any shape or form,
that grandfather, my grandfather...
One day... he sailed away,
across the sea, so far away...