BEAUTIFUL ISLAND
The island of my longing fires me up
when I conceive it sailing on the waves,
bows slicing through the sea, the ropes
among its puffed sails creaking in the wind.
The route it started it will never change.
Neither forward nor backward shall it go,
but like a straight-bowed ship in thought,
without me, it sails in the Aegean.
Without me! When amid my joy
like a bride with her coronals
the ship took off and won’t return
and standing on the summit of a rock
where ill luck guided me, I see it passing
and desperately extend my arms to hold it.
Libros Libertad 