To the many pointed rocks
That possess the noise
Of the sea
And the salt,
To the many naked rocks
That hide the homes of birds
And sea-shells,
To the many rocks, dark and green,
That know the taste of grass
And of woman
I went, beating my head.
On each I carved,
With my blood,
The swarming semblance
Of hostile characters.
I feel within me the discord-
The pores of dissension
And celestial harvests-
That tangles itself
As it reclaims the past.
And yet, I have discovered that anxiety
Took my father and my forefathers as well
Under the appearance of nothingness,
And I understand myself.
I reprove myself,
I absolve myself,
and I resolve…
The tears of a mother now dress
Those naked rocks.
