A thunderous roll of water is heard
in the distance, on the grey ocean, out there;
and the waves, like blocks of water,
monumental,
break apart on the sands.
The tiny eyes of little lights
in the cottages everywhere keep watch
observing, since yesterday evening
the sea roar under black bewitchment.
Behind a wall of mist,
they set out, the red-haired fisherman;
they battle on, only God knows where
amongst the summits of storm and spray.
With their souls, with their bodies,
with their eyes stung by salt,
with their fingers bitten by frost,
they struggle against death.
They call out and are not heard.
West, North, the whole sea in wrath;
the mast
cries out and quivers from top to bottom,
like a beast in a wrecked vessel.
The boat is doomed and comes apart,
ploughs a pit in the deepest wave;
the far off lighthouses seem farther still
as if reigning at the limits of the world.
Yet nevertheless the tiny lights
still keep watch from the cottages;
scattered amongst the dark enclosures
like crumbs of hope.
And the women, in their mourning capes,
clenched fists to their mouths,
are for ever there, silent and iron-willed,
gazing into the darkness.