Elm
Machado's century-old elm on the hill next to the Douro River was killed by the thunder.
April rains and May sun gave him a few young leaves and hope until the very end.
Before it was conquered by ants and rot in the depth of the trunk and yellow moss covered its bark.
That's how Machado's Elm died in his poem.

The great poet gave a new life to the dying Elm by the river.
To be a wooden support in the church belfry, a wheel or a yoke.
To finish with dignity in view of his years, so that he does not burn up in a shack by the side of the road.
I can't sing in the language of the great Machado.
His Elm on the hill diverts my mind to our Elm.

I know that we also had the Elm in our capital city.
Near the royal palace.
Next to the southern Biljarda tower was a mighty Elm tree, sprawling and powerful.
Created as a gathering place, to hear men’s word.
The master of our kingdom was also sitting there.
To listen to his folk. To judge and dispense justice.

The Elm gave shade and hope for justice.
Under the blue vault stands the courtroom and a simple wooden chair for the king.
Enough for the men’s word to listen.
It wasn't the Elm but honored man, the witness of heroic time.

And that man, that boulder, that Tree of Justice was spared from the thunder! But he was killed by the villain, beastly with an ax.
In late autumn, our Elm died.
The rascal cut every root of it so it couldn’t leaf out again.

Without hope for a new life to start in some wooden thing.
The Elm had to burn to the last fire-brand.
From those ashes, the wind blows the story about our Elm.
And the Elm lives in our thoughts, like the honored man.
Dignified to his honor.