To the offing. To the ocean where scaly travellers(1) rub their backs, go over one another, compete.
Betting my life on the moment, to the offing, to the offing, I am young.

I have returned. From there, tired of fighting, seeking rest,
to be cradled in an inlet, to sleep, to let myself be rolled in and out, be played with, on the beach of pinewind.

White noon, my legs dangling from the burnt rock under the lighthouse, eyes closed,
in the midst of the commotion of whirling waves, these are the words I heard.