You dislike heavy snows, deep freeze and frost bites.
And to suntanned Khao-Lak, a seapiece,
doorway to rings of fire and faultlines,
invisible to the eyes, from land to sea, you return.
When I think of Khao-Lak,
I imagine wind that blows over sea surface.
I imagine surfs that caress honeymooners in sunbath.
I imagine children marking the roots of sandcastles,
seagulls, sand, palms, the sun and sea.
And for a second I see the sea, on a tsunami wave train,
raging like a madman in his phantom dreams
and rushing inland like a racehorse on the last furlong,
grabbing everything, everyone in its inundation.
There's silence but I hear voices.
Not palms whose hands no longer spread and whistle in the wind.
Not of seagulls, they are dead or too bruised to sing.
Not of children and honeymooners who will see no tomorrow.
There's silence but I hear voices...
I hear the earth singing dirges,
crying for her children are no more.
And I feel her tears, cold as the melting snows
in a December winter noon.