There's between your salt
the flavor of my peace
found year after year, waiting
in the current that surges between two islands
decorating my sunsets
and flowing in the deepest foam of my memory;
The smells of mired boats
in the seaweed of an empty sea
in which there's nothing to do, but to keep walking
slowly watching how it fills.
There is the clock of my life,
each year stopping time
to retrieve its minutes
between those towns that begin where they end
and don't know how to exist
without the murmur of seashells
turning into sand.
