The smell of lavender, the island’s symbol, keeps rising
to our bed by the sea. In the long corridors
of continental sleep, tradition falls apart
and thousands of miles of writing fade in paper.
Here I forget that I’ll probably
end up as a philosopher, and learn there are
days more powerful than the images
I use to describe them. When we make love, red light
sets fire to the sea and every touch of my palm records itself
in the mandala, every swallow’s flight
and every move of my hand with which I calm the whirlwind
and stifle your scream so as not to wake the sleepers
from the cemetery above the sea. Whatever I may say
or write, in truth, I know of nothing to bow down to
or worship except love. And being so far
from time, it is difficult to believe we are chasing a fair wind,
sailing in parallel stories, and only once in a while, borne on a high wave,
come close to one another to breathe through the silence together,
the silence in which we weigh the rain of our earthly days.
And being so far from time, it is difficult to believe
there is a relentless old lady
whom we greeted with our first cry and who now
has taken shelter in our shadow. And being so far
from time, it is difficult to believe the inevitable
falling into the depths of her eyes could also be,
as all things are, part of a higher, cosmic plan.
We live for bright moments. For footprints
left on the beach, untouched by the waters
of the opposing seas of past and future.
Never for densely packed garbage,
uprooted by pain, yet, at the end, forgotten
even by the most persistent and talented memory.
For the boat that will take you across Lethe
you always await alone. Arcadia is entered by twos.