The Duty of the Poet 

 To someone who isn’t listening to

 the sea this Friday morning,

 to someone inside of something,

 a house, office, factory or woman,

 or street or mine or dry dungeon,

To this one I come to the rescue and

Without speaking or seeing

I arrive and open the door of the prison.

And without end vaguely hear in it

 insistence,

   A     long clap of broken thunder

       Chaining itself to the floor of the planet and of the foam,

The roaring rivers surge to the ocean

Swiftly vibrating,  the star and the sea palpitate, dying and continuing.

To this by destiny guided

I must, without respite, listen and preserve the lament of the sea in my consciousness.

I must feel the blow of hard water  and recognize in an eternal cup

So that, where this is, so is the prisoner.

Where he suffers the punishment of autumn

I will be there with an errant ocean wave

I will circle across the windows

And upon hearing me he will lift a glance

Saying, “how can I get closer to

 the ocean?”

And I will transmit without saying anything

The starry echoes of the wave

A breaking of foam and sandy places

A whisper of salt that withdraws,

The dull cry of a coastal bird

And so,  for me,   the liberty and the sea

Will answer back to the dark heart.

S.W.