What are the pebbles
of the Corsican sea,
if you try for a moment
to forsake this world,
its outlines so faded
by a such fierce heat,
and you try to go across
the frontierless mirror,
remaining for an instant
underwater, listening?
at the start we were high mountains,
and then boulders, and then stones,
and tomorrow we'll be
the most fine of the sands;
in the waves we are rocked
by our Mother, the immortal,
who, being jealous of us,
didn't want to leave us,
and so chose to be water.
so we speak, in the waves,
the old language of the Times,
and a sentence, a whisper
costs a part of ourselves.
only yesterday we streaked the keels
of the Phoenician ships, at their landing,
and this morning, distorted by water,
the French standard has dazzled us.
we don't love the stupid deserters
of your world, a harpoon in their hands
looking for thrills underwater:
but you now could be able to stop
and to listen to the language of the Times:
we don't have other gifts to give you,
you may now go back to your world:
but you, won't be poor anymore.