Limão

The bright veil of the sun in the mist
covers the wet hills
through a hole in the fog,
whips the sword of light
freeing the land as it touches it.
The rain has stopped,
the day is reborn for a stroll,
for love, for work.
At first, the smell is the first thing to remind
of the ground drying, warming
as the puddles shrink,
the people, the animals, the hustle and bustle.
It's a day to harvest, a day to fish,
preparing the fish.
The scent of lemon enchants me,
how does the fruit of the lemon tree feel?
The green virginity opens in drops
to stage the flavor
in the theater of the mouth,
where the roughness hurts
at the grinding of teeth
and the blood is water, a lot of water,
a spring.