According to my father...and me, I say (to a cloud sitting whispering to her sister)

That the youth planted the poem in a vessel of water

But the girl's hand took root on a stone

And on a precious stone, another stone sat me

'So, my son, watch out

The poem does not sleep on a bed for passers-by  

So don’t trust the water

You will not drag the wise sea by your hand

After this.

O son...'

But he goes back to his silence

In his eyes a sky extinguished again

But I found the sea lying on her dress

The sea emerges from its solemnity

Crosses the street of survivors

Towards the café

It rises out of its clothes

And descends into a poem

Like an absent-minded tourist

Spilling the coffee of meaning over his delirium

And the sea walks out of the port

Smiling

Elegant in its simplicity

Dragging Saturday by the ears

Confiscating its cigarette ends

And pushing it to the calendar

And the sea…

‘Don’t you have a sail?’

I said, Father, the youth’s cloud followed him to the café  

His heart's needle suspended on a star

Father,

This is the story of a cloud which descended to the water of words

‘And you – do you believe that?’

Father,

The youth planted the poem in a vessel of water

But the girl

Sat sewing the ceiling of her sky

The girl, just like us

Was distracted in her shyness

Then her Lord dropped into her palm

She covered him with the other, and he slept.

This is the story of a cloud which descended to the water of words.