The Man on the Beach

The Young Man on the Beach

Without touching the ground

his feet almost water, glide, very slowly

on the brown sand's tinted foam.

It is almost noon, above him the gulls

sashay sweetly. The sea that created fury

on the stones, does not dare do the same

on his feet, it recoils, it does not return

but in slow drops of dew, a less greedy blue.

The wind plays its music, its cooing and turns

into an impossible lover who finds in sadness

the precise reason for attempting to put him sleep,

to charm him, to make him its dream, its delight.

Fragile as a branch about to break

he clings to the old trunk, that way the wind

binds to his deepest root, his hair waving

like the flag of an exquisite country.

Svelte as the air walking on tiptoe

through tall palm trees, minimal as the cold,

as the heart dawning in his most intimate light,

immense as the sky that dwells in his pupils,

becoming the word that day whispers

to the ancient centuries. The name of his pride.

In his bathing suit, so naive, so simple,

without suspecting what happens on his thrown,

or noticing, if anything, the warmth of water,

the slow gulls that wander sweetly above him.