In the end, tree, a cloudy shelter will come
to cover your dry, aged branches.
It will lend you, short on green,
the white glow of its weightlessness
As a drop undoes the cloud into tears
I’ll tell my children:
no, the tree didn’t die,
your childhood sun has set.
Originally published in the April 2019 issue of Words Without Borders. "No Fim" © Helder Faife. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Sandra Tamele and Eric M. B. Becker. All rights reserved.