From aimless seas
mountains loom
like clouds.
They call to us,
weary sailors all,
and promise
soft sand, palm trees,
and beautiful natives,
lusting for new blood,
better than this interminable dance
of crest with trough,
azure fusing endlessly
into the unbroken
cerulean sea.
For, you see, we love enclosures,
tight, soft places,
cushions beneath our feet,
shadowy corners,
smoldering coals.
In dark rooms
our eyes grow wide
and summon forth
mystic sight:
ethereal forms,
dancing light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem