There are knives in the wind and the sea’s
slow sucking and thrusting rhythms
that tirelessly write on the sand
in the gestures
of those who, at times, casually stoop
to retrieve a memento or two
shells, driftwood, crusty sea creatures,
kelp, sometimes an ornament of stone
kept for countless soon-forgotten moments.
There are knives in the wind and the sea’s
hissing relentlessness
as it scribbles away on the ultimate silence of sand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem