VIII
But what are they after, our souls, traveling
on the decks of decayed ships
crowded with pallid women and crying babies
incapable of forgetting themselves either with the flying fish
or the stars pointed by the tips of the masts?
Rubbed by gramophone records
unwillingly dedicated to inexistent pilgrimages
murmuring broken thoughts from foreign languages?
But what are they after, our souls, traveling
on rotten ships
from harbour to harbour?
Shifting broken stones, breathing
the coolness of pine with greater difficulty each day
swimming in the waters of this sea
and that sea
without a sense of touch
without people
in a homeland that is no longer ours
nor yours.
We knew that the islands were beautiful
somewhere, perhaps around here, where we grope
a bit lower or slightly higher
a very tiny space.
Libros Libertad 