The waves, the seaweed, the widening wings,
the seashells rent and resonant,
the salt and iodine, the savage storms,
the uncertain dolphins and the chorusing

of sirens weary of their melodies,
will not replace for you the gentle lands
where you used to wander with the steady gait
that distances deep ships unerringly.

Palinurus, your closed and seaward face
keeps the serene night awake.
You naked, lying in that place,

will perpetuate your deaths upon the sand,
and distracted as a stone your hair
and nails will grow among the ivy there.