|
| |
Sonnet to the eels
Those tender eels you rescue by the shore
bring you empty news from the deep;
they aptly sing your sunken score,
vivid sounds from the liver of your ship.
You rely on your Sunday best to warm
your sins, fins and skin, but the heart...
the heart is scattered like the swarm
of pebbles that tear your feet apart.
Far, you glance at the fading distance,
which, in turn, presents itself at hand,
making itself unavailable in existence.
A darkest seagull hovers by, so stealth,
and you face the everchanging sand,
and you learn to woo burials, death.
Copyright ©
Onofre da Ramalha
|
|