To the seagull high above the pine-woods of the coast, on the wind the sibilant syllable of my ode.

Sail bright boat,
winged banner,
in my verse,
stitch,
body of silver,
your emblem across the
shirt of the icy firmament,
oh, aviator,
gentle serenade of flight,
snow arrow,
serene ship in the transparent
storm,
steady,
you soar while the hoarse wind
sweeps the meadows of the sky.

After your long voyage,
feathered magnolia,
triangle borne aloft on the air,
slowly you regain your form,
arranging
your silvery robes,
shaping your bright treasure
in an oval,
again a white bud of flight,
a round
seed,
egg of beauty.

I celebrate you as you are;
your insatiable voraciousness,
your screech in the rain,
or at rest
a snowflake blown
from the storm,
at peace or in flight,
seagull...