Hope there always is—always should be
even
when a ship is being smashed
against the rocks. There is hope.
Despite the frailness of the sea tossed plank
that might possibly bear you
safe to a rocky beach.
And hope is always good.
Hope, white as the foam of breakers
effervescing as they batter rocks
with amorphous power
pulverizing them
into the softness of sand
yielding, formless but permanent.
How far can you reduce matter?
Somewhere
not too far beyond the Cape, colors
blend and separate
as alien waters meet. Let go
and meet again
in a never-ending embrace.
While the indifferent waves pound
the rocks in ceaseless battle.
The lighthouse
keeps silent, solitary watch.
Its sweeping eye
perforating the thickening dark
with its blinding gleam of hope.
Hope that is permanently good.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem