Days on the Shore

Dragged up by the fury of storms, Monstrous cadavers of cattle Were still wide-eyed As if begging heaven for a clemency Which they were not again to see.

We set about prodding with our lances —spikes of sugar cane—the drums of their bellies. From the depths of the dead animals Issued a great gust of happiness, For we imagined that those corpses had come to realize, At some moment during the deluge, Amid the muddy and terrifying waters, That there and only there was to be found freedom, A roar of waste and silt-laden branches, An avalanche of strange beasts Which were never to tread The tall grass of the pastures Nor the dairyman’s hut.

For us, too, the great rush of mud Was a way to be free, A means to go down to the sea To reclaim what did not belong to it, A sort of wild restitution: Back to land what belongs to land.

Upon returning, and packed into the skiff, One of us proposed a feast, Another, knife for blinding cats in hand, Sliced the bread of the world, Handing it out among the deep-sea divers of souls.

After rounding the Punta of Las Acacias, The skin of the night would be ours And ours, too, the lights shimmering over the waves, Lights illuminating the feet of the giant stone god As he, hands crossed on his heart, presided over the seas.

He who believes in you—so I used to utter— May his death be not eternal. On the horizon the drifting bodies of the drowned Were neither at peace with the waters Nor did they ascend from the depths.