Where I live there is no real summer it is period
with too much heat till it gets cold and damp
which last seven months and is called winter.
This land with a hot sun and icicle shadows
casting a spell of misery on us and it is the time
of the year when the old people die in mass.
Tourists come here in bus, train and planes, not for the culture that has been watered down
like bacalao rinsed to many time before cooking
loses its flavour, and Fado reduced to irrelevance

They – tourists- sit in the sun on the beach getting
a tan, yet there are a few days in May when there
is a summer with green leaves and grass, and death
is something old people can joke about.