On a bitter bank I admire uncertain
ships departing plowing the seeds
of the waves, and already singing
sailors hymns to the poor heavenly.

 

Outside of my invisible boundaries
I start slow walking between yet
and mists; contours fade and
unfamilar faces oppress the mind.

 

Subjugating the fate they challenge
in the depths marine creatures,
and I become sad companion
of gamble of a Ione peacock.

 

And I let prune this petrified night,
becoming garden and gardener
of mine silence. So I inweave
human oceans without a dream.

 

So I turn to water white homelands
long high cypresses, to clothe
the May sun of the pant of infinity,
the happy fading of the suburbs.

 

Between high scope claims the silence
a sweet repatriation; already I see
new banks in the route of bitter return;
so I weep a past that never it has feded.