High moon opened up: the sun in the center, crowned. The earth awaited indecisively some movement in the sky and everyone remained indecipherable still.

The wind sails the open sea
steered by the albatross
that glides,
falls,
dances,
climbs,
hang motionless in the fading light,
touches the waves' towers,
settles down in
the disorderly element's
seething mortar
while the salt crowns it with laurels
and the furious foam hisses,
skims the waves
with its great symphonic wings,
leaving above the tempest
a book that flies on forever:
the statue of the wind.