for ten places,
a few folks,
ports, forests, deserts, forts,
a broken city, gray, monstrous
You have asked me what the crustacean spins between its limbs of gold
and I answer: the sea knows it.
Every thing is protected
by a grace ready for flight,
every stone and flower
every child at night.
What shall I do with you, homeland?
What shall I do with all this blood?
Where shall I put you
to prevent you from filling my days
with damage and grief?