print preview
 Svenska

The Boat—The Village

A Portuguese fishing boat, blue, its wake rolling up the Atlantic a bit.
A blue point far out, and yet I’m there—the six onboard don’t notice we are seven.

I saw a boat like this being built, laying like a huge lute without strings
in the barren ravine: the village where they wash and wash in rage, patience, melancholy.

Dark with people on the beach. A meeting was breaking up, the loudspeakers were carried off.
Soldiers led the orator’s Mercedes through the crowd, words beating against the metal sides.