The moment one says it is a moment
of perfection, it is something less
than perfection. So on the island
of Fernando de Noronha, I will be quiet
now. I will let the birds speak
Portuguese. I will let the waters speak
dialects of green. I will let the rocks
tell me I was never really born;
and the vistas carry my insights
to an early death. I will let the breeze
nudge my years off one cliff here and one cliff there. I will let the air
confiscate my passport. And I will let
the sand send my battles to the sea.
Let them all simply make an island
out of me. The moment I say I am lost
without love, I will be something less
than lost.
—
From: In This House, Turtle Point Press – ISBN 978 1 933527 33 8
