The September wind
Has thrust its arrows into the trees,
Freezing the blood of the foliage,
And this is a sign
For the fruit that they must die in their sleep.
No one drowns in the sea but the Çamian widows
Who wash their bloomers in autumn's sorrows.
The waters must be fed on sifting sand and the rust of ships
By the one brought to the plains by last year's wind
Like the feathered bed of a beloved corpse
Where no one comes to sleep anymore,
Not even the waves madly chanting in their low roar.
I cover myself in leaves as I painfully bury with bird feathers,
Azure sea lilies and seaweed
The Çamian widows unwinding their white braids over a well.
