Alone I wove my cloth,

Alone I planted turnips,

Alone betook me to the hills for wood,

alone watched it burn on the hearth. 

Not to fountain or meadow,

no, not even failing beneath my load,

will he come to raise me up,

nor lay himself beside me.

Such sadness! The wind blows,

the cricket sings in tune.

The kettle is on… but, my broth,

you are supper for one.

Quiet, turtledove, your cooing

makes me long to die.

Quiet, cricket, if you sing,

black nostalgia is on me.

That man of mine went missing,

no one knows where to.

But swallow, you who journeyed

with him on open seas,

fly to him, find him and

give me news of where he might be.

(from Follas Novas, 1880)