At The Azure Window

A face in the sky,
A bridge to the silver clouds.
Waves run up and down
The white rock, sheltering
Wishes of the horizon.
A tide lashes against
The eyes of the lichen general,
Eating away the hands
Of celeste Nature
With teeth of salt.
The day is a widow
Whose husband was taken
By the black pirates
Of the vociferous February.
A small hand of luminous sun
Reaches out between the violet clouds
To make a bridge
To guide the eyes from
The sea dancing with dark blue rage
Up to the invisible sky,
Womb of the north-west wind.

Romans sang odes to this horizon,
Arabs devoted to it hymns of Mecca,
And Sicilians sought their own steeples.
Still they come;
From hotels and harbours,
Bringing as they always did
Loves and dreams of love.
Like puppets of silhouettes
They clamber up and down
The white and yellow cliffs,
And the Everlasting looks
On with blue glares
Like women in their balcony,
And they ask the wind:
"Who are these shadows?"

For a quick instant,
The hungry winds fall silent.

O for such a quick instant
The hungry winds fall silent.

The cape sorrel covers
Their golden ears, they
Won't listen. The lichen
Digs itself beneath
St.Anna's steps.
The silence is immense.
The silence is unreal.

"Who are these shadows?"
The wind picks up the grey words
And rushes to scatter them
Over the pale cliff-faces
Of the shivering Mediterrenean.
The Azure window
Exhales a sigh of aquamarine
And proclaims the resumption
Of the transcendant tranquility.
The clouds wrap themselves
In the death of the hours
And weep blades of dawn
That beats on the window's
Thin torso, without knowing it.
No women, no men, exist,
There are no stages
In these sheer beds,
Only sightless miracles.

At the Azure window
There is nothing to forget:

Everything is forgotten.