The boat

Italian

Lightning and thunder together,
the tempest is near,
the sea is stormy,
high waves of water chase each other everywhere.

The rain adds water onto water,
white foam crests glide upwards,
while they are forming deep gorges impetuous;
waves writhe and slam...

Far away a dim light,
a small firefly in the darkness of the storm;
stubbornly resists to the incessant shaking,
disappears and reappears between the walls of dark water.

It is a boat, a fishing vessel,
who knows how in that torment.
The bell on the bridge sounds wildly,
shaken by invisible hands.

At the helm a fisherman,
with his hands tight on the wheel,
cries, as if to face
the monster that rules out there.

An avalanche of water strikes him,
and for a moment he drowns,
then he finds his breath
with a reversed scream.

The boat rears up,
climbs a wall of water.
The horizontal rain invades the cabin,
the prow points towards the sky.

Then the wave withdraws,
the propellers spin uselessly,
the hull is suspended...
Time is suspended...

A bolt of lightning splits the sky,
the light whitens the scene,
the thunder rumbles in the bilge,
the boat twists and falls.

Moments of blind terror,
the fisherman closes his dazzled eyes,
the bow now points towards the sea;
large gaping jaws of water await the hull.

With a dull thud the boat dives,
all around is water,
the fisherman claws to the helm,
his body pulled by the waves.

The muffled roar of the engines insists underwater,
the fisherman grits his teeth and extends the effort,
his lungs protest for the need for air,
the boat limps toward the surface.

And finally, with a dive from the bottom,
reemerges in that stormy hell,
the fisherman breathes desperately
the air brings him back to the world.

That world so angry and dark,
where the Up mixes with the Down,
the day seems to be night
and salvation seems a lost fight...

The man shakes the water off his back,
observes the horizon all around,
pushes his glance on the farther details;
that rebel surface seems to extend indefinitely.

A flash, another ... there is something there on starboard;
is a regular glow, not a freak of mind.
The light pulse insists... looks like a lighthouse,
the light nears... and gradually... blurs...

The rain ends,
the wind stops,
the waters calm down,
the boat does not pitch...

I open my eyes... I'm sweaty and tired.
My hospital room, my bed;
it is still night, there is silence and stillness.
I need to calm down...

I think back to that dream,
Was I that brave fisherman?
No, I rather was that small resilient boat.
Obstinate and stubborn to survive and fight again.