The hearth fanned its light,
to the rhythm of the puff of fog,
and the ax reaffirmed proudly,
between the calloused hands, of which he was always his prisoner.
The fire in twilights,
because the last crack of guatacare,
he abandoned himself to his chimera luck,
and his posthumously plaintive blade,
He left with the snort of fog.
The stove was without a lumberjack,
and the ax crumbles its rage,
on the dry trunk on the road laid,
because the woodcutter stayed in his bed,
after his last breath
The stove, The woodcutter and the fog,
they made a love triangle,
while the ax alone and sad,
accepting his rusty life that grieved him,
plunged into the most frightening pain.
The unforgettable memory of the mist remained in the fire,
embraced forever,
to the last unhappy breath of the bonfire.
There is the fog,
in taciturn waiting,
while the stove is turned off,
that keeps the flame of love,
that firefly that lights his heart,
and that only, by God's work,
He turned on his woodcutter.
