It writes its poems with light and sand
with foam
with the forming of a wave
with its sliding
with its rising
with its fall as a building
with its vanishing
as if it was never born
with the blue
with undressing the blue
with the greenness
with its birth in a morning
of wings and masts.
The relationship is clear between me and the sea:
It reads its epics with the voice of the wind
and I fall in the traps of my memory.