Westward the sea joins the mountain range.
From our left the south wind blows and maddens us
the kind of wind that strips the bones off the flesh.
Our home among the pines and the carob trees.
Large windows. Large tables
where we’ve been writing the letters destined for you
for so many months and dropping them
into our separation so that it may get filled up.
Star of dawn, when you lowered your eyes
our hours were sweeter than oil
over the wound, more joyful than cool water
to our palate, more peaceful than the plumes of the swan.
You held our lives in your palm.
After the bitter bread of exile
if we stand before a white wall at night
your voice nears us like a hope of fire
and again this wind sharpens
a razor against our nerves.
Each of us writes to you the same things
and each turns silent before the other
gazing, each of us, the same world separately
the light and darkness on the mountain range
Who will lift this sorrow from our hearts?
Last night heavy rain and today again
the cloudy sky weighs down on us. Our thoughts
like the pine needles of yesterday’s downpour
gathered up and useless by our front door
as though to build a tower that collapses.
Among these decimated villages
over this cape, open to the south wind
with the mountain range before us hiding you
who would estimate for us the sentence to oblivion?
Who will accept our offering at the end of this autumn?