Abstract terms and all-embracing metaphors have no currency here, off the northern coast of sunstruck Sardinia, the wind blows them away, the sea swallows them with the avidity of an ancient sea monster. Here everything is pure individuation, humble majesty, the pebble, the wave, the salt crystal living on its own, not answering to anything or anyone.
I raise my silence in oblation to the wine-dark sea, to the fish-rich pathways that leave no trace, to the fallen sailors who have no-one to sing their memory, to the washed-up dreams that are carried away by the gentle winds. I set my foot upon this rocky edge that crumbles under my feet and turns itself into water and salt, the liquid gold of ancient days.
I lift my eyes on the star-studded sky, the constellations named and remembered by generations of navigators who were not afraid of the deep, though they feared everything against fear, the rule of the sea bathing their unruly bodies and their restless minds. A world without end, contained in drops of ambrosia that the hollow boats trouble with their haughty keels.