Bottle in the sea
Three rocks, a few burnt up pines, a lonely chapel
and a bit higher
the same landscape is repeated
three rusted rocks in the shape of a gate
a few black and yellow burnt up pines
and a square little house, buried in whitewash
and still higher, many times over
the same landscape reappears level after level
to the horizon, to the sky at sundown.
Here we moored the ship to splice the broken oars
to drink some water and to sleep.
The sea that embittered us is deep and unexplored
and unfolds a boundless serenity.
Here among the pebbles we found a coin
and we threw the dice for it.
The youngest won it and disappeared.
We sailed away again with our broken oars.