This rain
of black fish, of eyes,

and the mud-bricks of the houses,
and the reedbed, you who speak to
the tombstones of Qala,
speech, you who smooth the pebbles of the ravine
and lick and slide the shores
and there you placidly wallow
and turn yourself into cove, shallow cave, cliff.

And beyond, as far as the small island of the Mortals, the driftwood
soaked by rain and salt,
wounded.

Sea, like a wounded animal you tremble, light
of wings, of smells,
you make the hands of the old sun tremble.

You faint, feathers, skies of many yesterdays.

Dahlet Qorrot, Island of Gozo, 2000

Translated by Anna Crowe