According to my father...and me, I say (to a cloud sitting whispering to her sister)
That the youth planted the poem in a vessel of water
But the girl's hand took root on a stone
And on a precious stone, another stone sat me

'So, my son, watch out
The poem does not sleep on a bed for passers-by
So don't trust the water
You will not drag the wise sea by your hand
After this.
O son...'
But he goes back to his silence
In his eyes a sky extinguished again

But I found the sea lying on her dress
The sea emerges from its solemnity
Crosses the street of survivors
Towards the café
It rises out of its clothes
And descends into a poem
Like an absent-minded tourist
Spilling the coffee of meaning over his delirium

And the sea walks out of the port
Smiling
Elegant in its simplicity
Dragging Saturday by the ears
Confiscating its cigarette ends
And pushing it to the calendar

And the sea…
‘Don't you have a sail?'
I said, Father, the youth's cloud followed him to the café
His heart's needle suspended on a star
Father,
This is the story of a cloud which descended to the water of words

‘And you - do you believe that?'
Father,
The youth planted the poem in a vessel of water
But the girl
Sat sewing the ceiling of her sky
The girl, just like us
Was distracted in her shyness
Then her Lord dropped into her palm
She covered him with the other, and he slept.

This is the story of a cloud which descended to the water of words.

Translated by Ayesha Saldanha