I will have spun all the knots of my destiny in one str oke, without a stopover: the heart filled with tales of travel, the foot always put on the flexible springboar d of the footbridges of the departur e and the too careful spirit watching ceaselessly the pitfalls.

Prisoner between the precise edges of the landscape and the rings of the days, riveted to the same chain of rocks, stretched to master the sudden frenzies of the sea, I will have followed, in the furious bubbling of their wake, all the loaded boats that left without me. Hostile to the movement which goes in opposite direction of the ground and, insensibly, moves us away fr om the edge: looking, the back turned to all these walled fronts, to these eyes without glare, to these scarred and without murmurs lips, over the tangled needles of the port which, the days of b ig wind, of the thread of the horizon weave the veil of the clouds. Waiting for another turn. Waiting for the moorings to be decided; when reason no longer holds on to the rhyme: when fate is handed over to the sole whim of chance until the day when I could finally take to the sea on one of these col ored ships, without crew, which go by weaving from lighthouse to lighthouse like fish attr acted by the fisherman’s golden fly.

To run under the magnetized night without a star, in the moaning of the wind and the har assed panting of the pack of waves to, when finally emerges fr om the depths of the severe horizon the limpid pediment of the morning, to approach, with the signal of the rising, the bright shor e of Greece – in the impulse without clash of the docile waves, quivering among the fingers of this broad hand posed in
sovereign on the sea.