Just above the highest line of beach, where stormsmashed
manitokas bend their beggaring
shapes, I see him hunched by a cloistering of rocks.
Empty hands fumble at mending nets,
eyes tracking shoals of cloud-shadows in the sea.
Shells of dead sea creatures lie strewn
all about like the many memories
the small waves bring to him
as they come ashore out of the setting sun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem