He was poured from the sea
She grown of it
He a rogue and sailor
She an impossible flower
Entwined and ensnared a life lived
The tombstone speaks only in its
Sun baked granite-tongue
Of their passage here
Nothing is told of the wet passion
That is left engraved in the
Flesh and dreams of
The left-behind.
Bone and dirt now bind them.
In this the tombstone is silent
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem