Classic Poem

Narrinai 4

The fishermen who go
from the little town in the seaside groves
into the sea
wait in the thick shade of the blue laurel tree,
looking for the right time
to enter the cold wide waters,
spreading and drying meanwhile their nets
with many eyes and knots,

in the seaside of my man.

If only someone would go to him
and tell him,
" If Mother should ever hear
the scandal about us, it would be hard for me
to live here, "

maybe he'll take me then,

through those places where
the salt merchants trading in white rocksalt
wake up the cows sleeping on the long road
as they crunch their carts through the sand,
their loud wheels
scaring the black-legged white heron in the fields,

to his home town
surrounded by salt pans?