Nothing grows except the grass.
Nothing leaps into sight except some stone
and what the stone contains and protects.
Here, far from the beach,
far from the place where the water
returns every so often
rusted metal, mouldy wood,
the corpse of a dolphin or a turtle.
The wind does not blow with the force
to propel us as far as the promised then.
The minutes that pass become hours
but never days, they become nights
that never agree to be years,
and centuries in which somebody dies
and someone else, who does not know it, yawns.
© translation:Brian Cole
