Epiphany

The homes are opening up in the mist like grief of figures with eyes, opened up to the sea tract. The walls are crumbling, to this evening groaning with strength. Who is shouting there? Who is building fire on the shore? The oars were dying of the sweat. The sails were torn by the winds dead. Did they bring ebony and silk, myrrh and emeralds from Lepanto? They remained with ashes of the sea, with corns, with grief, resembling anchor. On winding, light-footed caravels captains are shouting on the deserted shore and building Epiphany sacrificial fires.