In the north the cold and its broken jasmine.
In the east a nightingale full of thorns.
In the south the rose in its airy mines,
and in the west a road deep in thought.
In the north an angel lies gagged.
In the east the song commands its mists.
In the south my tender bunch of thin palm trees,
and in the west my door and my worry.
A flight of cloud or sigh could
trace this finest of all borders
that amply defends my refuge.
A distant retribution of wave bursts
and bites into your foreign oblivion,
my dry island inmidst the battle.
Sara De Ilbanes