Island of solitudes and bells,
the days dash us against your cliffs,
your peak of rest and candour,
your immensity cut through by the hours and the birds.
Your mass of new light emerges out of time,
and little by little you share out your weekly gold,
and making us rich in celestial allotments.
Our tired feet touch your last step as if it were a bed,
or coveted foam, or an agitated cupola
where birds of wine celebrate
the hands’ sweet holiday.
We reach your coasts each week
as shipwrecked men,
to fill ourselves with lights and to seek out the palm tree of repose
or the plans for the treasure hidden in the clouds.
Jorge Carrera Andrade