I always feared the sea
I always feared the sea,
her bluetitude,
the raving immensity,
her patience to sculpt shores,
the silence in her hidden depths
where volcanoes whistle tunes
for the dead.
I always feared the sea,
the sharpness of her void,
her uncertain horizon calling the pursuit,
of promiscuous suns and unfaithful moons,
her threatening stillness,
everything under a veil and over her waves.
Embrace she will.
Run.
By drowning she breathes
the tears, and the memories,
and treasures the vaults of pain
to sink with the stories of ships
bombarded by pirates of reality
locked away in consumed souls.
“In me, you shall breathe again”,
she pledges.
Her sincere vows encrypted
on rocks, where she screams:
“I will try to kill you,
if you love me to the core of darkness;
but beware my silence,
for I will reclaim your world”.
At least she is honest,
for the coasts worry not
the epicenter of tsunamis.
Why did you not understand?
Peacefulness is the distant facade of the tempest.
Serenity is her horizon’s seduction,
and the hurricane started with your right foot
touching the end tail of a cold, tiny wave,
the sea’s treasonous kiss,
the subtlest way to seize your soul.
That which the sea breaks against,
is the sunset of our failed attempts,
the sunrise of our unavoidable sadness,
the moon bathed midnights of our hopelessness
drawing lines on the sand.
She will dissolve your fingers.
She will forget your words.
Wonder her love.
Perhaps a reflection
of the peace projected
and the chaos contained.
Drown in one.
You may breathe the other.
I always feared the sea,
she knows too much about me,
but she does not know my name.
[Written 9 May 2018 in Dakar, Senegal]
