Who claims we have no sea?
Perhaps not now, dabbling at the threshold,
but once we had it roaring past the front porch
until it ran suddenly underground, taking our homes
and some of us as well, while the rest were shipwrecked.
How can we live without it?
Pushed farther inland, linked by loss,
we breathed it far across the mountain peaks.
White, blue, or black—always different,
always alike ... and we could touch it.
It's still here, locked in cavernous depths and cellars:
its tide bellows in our dreams, drifts us on the shores of the real:
its salt is drought, and the skies are bottomless high seas ...
Our country is an island left by the one Flood, on land,
a glacier caught among rocks softly melting our desires
for the antediluvian Ocean, too many traces left inside us.
This torrent, heaving thunder in our veins,
finally drinks in our salty blood. We, too,
suffer for spilling the blood of brothers.
What else could explain why the sea is so unfit to drink?
