(Marsaskala at dawn)
The orient has already kindled its forge.
On the horizon the red faced sun
melts down the golden ingots.
In a flood of light
in the heavens
cloudlets catch fire
like cotton swabs dipped in blood.
The promise of the coming heat-wave,
Sizzling, fizzling
is already there.
And here below!
The ashen choppy waters
like chilled mercury
feel the weight of darkness, drowsy, lethargic …
depressed
with the lonely load
of delivery.
The young body yawns!
But the spirit stops short in thought
steeped in sleepiness
like a hen bird
ruffling its wings at dawn
and pecking
with the comb of its beak
at sinister mist-wrapped topics …
at endemic misty globules.