Ash on the Soles

I’ve been staring at your charred soles, my friend.
Did you mistake the water for the fire again? Not that we wouldn’t have sunk...

But then... look, the ship is already nearing the harbour.
Put something on your feet. Lay the white cloths over the embers.

Let them blacken. Or drive your cross into the middle of the vineyard.
And together we’ll frighten the grape-pickers. And the crows.

But then... what straw hats we’ve got ready...
and how the ship is already nearing the harbour.

We’ll leap onto the quay with grins from ear to ear.
And forelocks under our visors. We’ll go running toward the sunset.

We’ll roll in the sand and wash ourselves in the water.
The salty one. So the salt will ache. From loneliness. When we dry.

When we wander into the embers. Into the lava. Into the mouth of the volcano.
Into the eye of the hurricane. Into the splendid calm of the reigning storm.

There’s ash only on the soles. To ash, my friend, we turn the water.