It’s time you steered to the old bay :
Tranquility and verbs are ripe.
On the horizon’s copper lay
Night butterflies fluttered a stripe.


You might not even recognise

The ship that carries me away,
Plundered by cruel army cries

To idler Moluccas’ heyday,


And there’ll be nothing to recall
But the seashell hearts in clusters,
Chanting for you as to enthrall

Your feet bedight with lacklustres.


And there I harbour hydromel
And absinthe from tropical mint.
There I store red gold, the ship’s spell,

Arboresque silver, from hold’s glint.


I propel floating carpets there
on the poop deck, right by my side,
Pile postcards of the port’s giftware,

A cynegetic stork chick’s glide.


If the fripperies I carry
Seem unearthly and uncanny,
I lodge seas of thoughts, unwary,
Large isles for you, more than many,


You might long for a livid North
With Scandinavian hillocks.
My harsh fjord quietudes call forth,
Stolen from ships in other docks.


Or our beloved old quayside
Might be closer to your heart’s throb,
There we shall go, if you decide
To hear it purl while waters sob.


Don’t make a detour, don’t linger,
Can’t you see my fright through the masts ?
The framing night’s a grave clinger
So your white boat will wreck outcasts.

English version by Gabriela PACHIA