Besieging the circle of an above-ground fort for its light
The cold, sharp wave storms the lighthouse
Robust turret of stones in the middle of nowhere
Off La Rochelle or Le Finistère

And she, agitated, is indeed seavage!

Quietly approaching the canoe on sand
Hope of coconuts, hammocks in palm trees
This tropical land would come from a fable
Mix of lava and water, the Piton has risen!

And she, struck, flies in white vapors!

Reducing the life of country smugglers
She is often tombs of ill-fated Ulysses
How far away she seems, then, the boot of Italy,
For those who have left everything, dreaming of being born there!

And this crossing does not offer a visa!

Stifling pitifully under floating *******
The gray sea without corals is emptied of its life
Only the abyssal fish do not see how
On the surface, belugas find the time long!

And she, once a sanctuary, became compost!

Inspiring, from the foam, the writings of the poet,
Sea, Ocean Blue, Aegean and beautiful Seychelles,
Because without it, our life would have been so thin
In our inner worlds, its flow always calls back!

And she, stained, becomes crystalline again!

See in these painting our vital element
Exhausted, neglected by our great laziness
For it to be paradise and not only distress
Let's save the coastline, fragile like an opal!

Translated on November 2019
Nancy

The thick fog of the forgotten lands
pays tribute to the waste in the sand
as the seagulls scream at the top of their lungs
when the cold night falls and the waves start to bend

The magnified sound of angry horns
slowly rolls out from water to the shores
while the madmen watch their world come apart
prayers find home among the gods of the heart

One soul is lonely if nobody resonates
with the pain that is being felt at high sea
but a single lighthouse touches their faith
from behind curtains of despair and greed

A soldier it is in the blue countryside
this building that keeps on shining a light
withstanding the wrath of thunder and time
guarding the realm of men from the dark

So did the sailors set foot once again
their demons confined in the harsh winter rain
but the glass of the bottle is prone to break
for the ocean calls forever and the hardship prevails

I love lighthouses;
Lonely, desolate, cold
Grown out of rocky outcrops
Designed by monolithic architects,
Where only ascetic souls can call home
Their light, a beacon in the darkness
To protect sailors from the smouldering sea,
And all her whiles and trickery
One lonely light, that shines out
Like faith, like hope, like love
So mariners will not plot a course
Into the shallow depths of death,
Book a room in Davy Jones’ Locker.

Her eyes are the lighthouse of the Pharos,
Alexandrian, bronze-mirrored fire flung round
The gloaming coastal sorrow like sand-glittered spears.

Her praying mantis limbs of light,
Sever-poised for needlepoint strike
At the jeweled glint of wings in dim, rare-seen limits,
Now one with her rasping sea of scarab beetle husks.

I was there when darkness
was all you ever knew.
So black it was; the night,
that your shadows left you too,

but then across the horizon
a beacon's match did strike,
and burned a path right through the dusk
to end your lonely nights.

Years flew by in blinks of an eye
and long gone are those days;
but still despite, I kept the light
that watched you drift away.

Forever my heart will be your guide
so that you never sail alone,
and if you're ever feeling lost
you'll know the way back home.

And I keep swimming towards you.
Even if the current pushes me away.
My stubborn self swallows its love for you, drowning, struggling to keep its head over water.
And they tell me you’re the lighthouse.
Even if you’re far away. Just keep swimming.
And I know you’re there. Waiting for me. But not just yet.


And my heart believes it all. What a fool.

languid waves
lap at the shoreline
as the wind
scoops up handfuls
of sea foam
to scatter
across sun-baked sand,
rolling lazily along
before disintegrating
into open air.
the faint hum
of the breeze
is whipping
past our ears
and the yawning
breathing of the ocean’s
gentle sheen
refracts sunlight
across white-crested
saltwater.

i can feel callouses
forming on the soles
of my feet
as i make my way
barefoot across the boardwalk.
little reeds sway
in the sand
and salt-eroded shells
are tiny lumps,
half-buried treasure chests.
a storm is brewing
on the horizon,
but the dark clouds
can’t quite cut down
the sun
from the heavens.

i am wandering
back and forth,
tugged along
by the ebb and flow
of the ocean.
oscillating
between the highs
and lows.
look
and see
the old watchtower,
the lighthouse
fallen into disrepair,
standing silent,
a sentinel
securing the shore.
witness the erosion of water.
know that
for a time
the tower stood tall and proud
an insulting finger
stretching towards
an apathetic sky—
defiant, to the end.