The timeless and spaceless sea caresses us with her understanding waves.
Her solitude is so immense that it blends with her infinite waters.
No one lives there, nor furrows in her: no one calls her, nor listens to her, nor watches her.
She lives naked like the soul, with her profound immensity for company.
There are neither welcomes in her ports, nor goodbyes on her obscure jetties.
Both the beaches she takes and the ones she abandons are empty.
Her conches are mute and her underwater stars no longer give out any light.
Of the sailboats that loved her, only vague memories remain.
The land ignores our doubts and the firmament our long agonies.
Only the sea that understands us can measure the solitude of our lives.
The sea floods our eyes with the trembling tenderness of her waters.
The powerful feeling of the endless sea takes for a moment the human shape.
And between her invading waters our emotion grows more profound and more bitter.
For the alternating pain of the tides, our own being is a beach.
From our veins come the waves that follow one another on more distant shores.
Something greater than us is stirred in our resigned voice.
A passion of flesh and blood trembles in the pulse of the solitary waves.
Hands of wind hit our heart and oppress our throat.
Only the sea that contemplates us knows how to measure the solitude of our tears.
The sea listens relentlessly to the silent confession of memories.
An uncontainable but voiceless emotion rises from the bottom of the heart.
Where the waters are deep like death or love, there is a sailing ship.
Below the pensive waves the great vessel of our childhood is sleeping.
In the abyss is its sweetness like an abandoned violin in the desert.
Nested in the tenebrous forest, a child's weeping on a lone and dark path.
Its mute and solitary body leads the life of flowers and the blind.
So quiet and so lonely, it seems a self-absorbed soul instead of a body.
For endless love, all ports on earth seem small.
Only this sea which listens to us can measure the solitude of our dreams.
The sea questions us in the language of its most obscure waves.
(So very somber that they do not even have the grace of foam)
Deep are her dark eyes, but her voice is still deeper.
It is necessary to have suffered without any compassion to know what she murmurs.
The waves come from very far to break in our being, one by one.
They come without any remnants of shipwrecks under starless and moonless skies.
They didn’t see enchanted islands, or white sails, or wandering seagulls.
Like in a desert, it is impossible to be outside of the very being for whom they sigh and contemplate.
Above the desolate waves the firmament is as distant as ever.
Only the sea which calls on us can measure the solitude of our anguish.
The sea without direction and without protection seeks refuge in our heads.
And the movement of its tireless waves slowly becomes calm.
Above the august waters a spiritual peace dictates her laws.
Eternity calms them down with the marvelous virtue of her oil.
In the infinite darkness a great mystery opens its wings for ever.
And in the solitary abyss all forms of oblivion are present.
Instead of voices there is silence, and terrifying solitude instead of beings.
Where there were birds there is wind and darkness where there were fish.
Our pain and that of the water are united in the peace of the surf.
Only this sea which knows us can measure the solitude of our minds.
Translated from Spanish by Alain Millon
