modern castaway i am travelling with seven tourist virgins
to Ithaca the island of such Homeric fame
blind the storm winds blind the moist rain
blind also I am a naval Tiresias
from long life wasted in the lands of cyclops and lystrigones
returning sweet is my return before the dawn enters
sand is smooth hearing the sea absorbing all her tides

lightness and delicate sense movements
hieroglyphic syllables the silent waves
i am as leaf in breeze in stillness and in tempest
an old soul formless like sea abyss stirred – agonised
my symbolism is vanishing , but not my grace and language
my philosophies fainted but not my offerings aim
my coastline rough and ragged with deeply carved bays
but still a visionary with my Dionysian spirit and song
washed up in the land of Nausicaa waiting for my Persephone