waft towards you in the warm evening wind
from the harbour where the ships are rocked gently in the waves
as they wait to depart once more from the shore of the island -
always leaving, always leaving,
and sighing for something that has been lost.
of the day and of the night:
of the day that has seen too much
and of the night that has seen too little.
of the young for a love that lies in the future,
that is hard-edged and too much to bear;
and of the old for a love that lies in the past,
and has gone soft and can no longer be borne.
They will reach you, these sighs
though you hear them but faintly
half hidden in the wind
(is it a sigh, you ask yourself,
or perhaps just the wind
that brings water to my eyes?):
and you will feel them in the blood
as it pulses in your veins
and the temples of your head;
and so the rain
will weep upon you once more,
falling through the sky;
and dubious sighs
will know you once again
taking you in the night
into their arms of pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.