
Icebergs, without guardrail, without girdle, where old weather-beaten cormorants and the souls of recently dead sailors lean on their elbows on the enchanting and hyperboreal nights.
Icebergs, Icebergs, cathedrals without religion of the eternal winter, robed in the glacial skullcap of the planet Earth.
How high, how pure are your edges, born of the cold.
Icebergs, Icebergs, back of the North Atlantic, august Buddhas frozen on uncontemplated seas, gleaming Lighthouses of Death without issue, the desperate cry of the silence lasts for centuries.
Icebergs, Icebergs, Solitaries without cause, countries barred-up, distant and free of vermin. Parents of islands, parents of springs, how well I see you, how familiar you are to me....