It is the first hour.
From the orient
comes the sun.
The moon,
despoiled of the gold
of night,
goes down slowly towards the west
that waits for it under the line
of the horizon.
On the basso continuo
of the shore
the waves unravel,
one by one,
the music they bring
from as far
as time,
and it’s a tune, and another tune
and a thousand more tunes,
rhythmic, repeated,
spilled on the sand.
The seabirds
begin
their flights,
some swiftly, others
unhurriedly
they fall on the water, well-aimed,
they rise up, they fly away
until at last the sun´s glare
stumps them
Little by little you hear
voices, echoes, a song.
The breeze, gardener,
sprinkles orange blossoms
on the bright blue of the sea.
|
(January, 2001) Meira Delmar |