In an enclosed sea
He rows, starless, for a long time,
under the bland light blue of the sky
under the black sack of night.
In his boat a cast of fools,
the absurd vestiges of a circus
declared to be failures.
In an enclosed sea
he is an emaciated oarsman,
rowing with bones jutting out
and mould in his eyes.
The fools with dry mouths
sing his story, out of tune:
A crappy oarsman in the
middle
of a journey with no
compass.
A lost oarsman looking
for an exit.
Looking for the sun’s
displacement
or
the hidden cobweb of
stars
to rid himself of mortal
fever,
of his fatal charter.
And he fails to realise
that the water has turned to glue.
Translated by Patricia Gatt