He was still called a poet
though nothing poetic would come from his fingers,
like that song that no one could sing.
He said that love had gone, hope had deceased,
what should I write for?
The fisherman stood up and pointed:
write that seagull something
to tell her that tomorrow the waves might be severe,
write the palm tree something
to thank her for being pretty everyday,
write my wife something
let her know that I never miss a sunset
for a single day since she was buried by those damn water.