«The stoop of oaks lifts up the chrome of clouds. / Cliffs harbour alcoves, niches, grottos deep. / And rain and wind and heat have left their traces / Into these stones engraved. A sketch is grooved Onto the slope, crayoned by lichen, framed by moss, / And walls of rock rise up as icon-case...»
«Full-blossomed, blue-grey and milky, the day froze still; / The sea, grown pallid, sobs as it kisses the sand; / The wings of the mist / Shed splashes of brine... Humility envelops the heart. Quiet... / Thoughts die away. In the orchard, the olive / Stretches her boughs to the blind sky /...»
«The door is open: welcome, all who come! / All roads, all journeys meet in this my home. / Through its chilly cells, in limewash white, / the breeze transmits the waves' muffled thud / against the low beach, wafting bitter wormwood / and the brittle voice of the cicada. / From tall windo...»
«Who will bring our chronicle to later times? / No written text, no thought, no word will reach them. / The licking flame will swallow up all signs / and blood will eat away the blind syllables. / And yet, maybe, some chance-remembered verse / will keep and hold a sacred memory. / None of...»