Startled by silly words silently soaring
over snow’s dark, fine cover,
the old man finds himself in disarray.
A host of long lost images plunges
through early windy windings of his presence
demanding to be named and dear.
The sea gently rocks the day
with tender echo that flees the light,
rolling beneath dark distant skies.
The old man stands by the water,
the horizon bleeds invisibility,
suddenly, a last gull cries his name.
Solemn like a Sunday morning bell;
the eyes that raced are still.
Glorious peace that eats the heart;
All of that and he burns with regrets
that no man ever went for lack,
nor ever for not wanting.
For a moment he dangles;
bait for the hungry and ignorant.
No sweet aroma meets the starfish
surfing on dark water’s curve.
Death has no say here,
he alone is the enchanted dance.
The cod tolls for the old man,
for the squid that falls at his feet,
for the grey clouds of shrimps,
for the clams with grey wet
and weepy secrets and make believe
and to the mad eddy of water
that falls in darkness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem