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.