I saw Greece's stony fist lying
in the Mediterranean and a ship
that peeled back the water's blue
in rippled stripes. Further east
Turkish poems, unpronounceable,
stirred by rhythmic waves.
I saw how the water separated itself
from the salt on the suffering coast.
Between all of the glowering stones
the epics arose: the stories
of thistles and bread
baked by the sun.
Down there the language went ashore
and everything received a name.
I could see it clearly -
the words trembled like a flock of birds
above the wasteland.
We had to buckle up, lashed down,
with bated breath
we reached the promised land.

Translated by Bradley Schmidt