Winter dream's on the Guincho.

In a restaurant at the sea's edge
I saw muscular lobsters eating people
They praised the bleached linen tablecloths
Admiring the sea, blue in the sun, as always in
Cascais.
The mincing metre of the baby waves.

They praised, too the red meat, the white meat,
Said how convenient it was to keep them, live, in cages
Between the rock and the tide
Until ready to be boiled and pull to pieces.

The wine of long friendship lent the gathering flavour
A source of puzzlement, of wonderment,
'What if we were this dish upon its bed of leaves,
What if these humans were qua-drilling all around us
In evening clothes, to their cacophonous instruments ?

Thank God we have investments in the sand
Property lent out at highest interest, unconditional
Rights to the produce of labour from the world's gold beaches.

We, inheritors of the culture of the ages
Let us savour the choicest portions of these powerless dishes
In this endless feast between the sun and wine.'