She must just have left the sea. Her hair and lips
Smelled of the sea till the morning.
Her rising and falling breast was like the sea. I knew she was poor -
But you can't talk of poverty all the time. Gently, next to my ear
She sang songs of love.
Who knows what she has learned and experienced
In her life fighting the sea.
Patching fish nets, casting fish nets, gathering fish nets,
To remind me of spiny fish
Her hands touched my hands.
That night I saw, I saw it in her eyes; How lovely the sea has risen in the open sea.
Her hair taught me about waves;
I tossed and tossed around dreams.
Now the sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence... someone might have escaped from their singing; but from their silence, certainly never. Franz Kafka