To the solemn sea
the old women come
With their shawls
knotted around their necks
With their fragile feet cracking.
They sit down
alone on the shore
Without moving
their eyes or their hands
Without changing the clouds
or the silence.
The obscene sea
breaks and claws
Rushes downhill
trumpeting
Shakes its bull's beard.
The gentle old ladies seated
As if in a transparent boat
They look at the terrorist waves.
Where will they go
and where have they been?
They come from every corner
They come from our own lives.
Now they have the ocean
The cold and burning emptiness
The solitude full of flames.
They come from all the pasts
From houses which were fragrant
From burnt-up evenings.
They look, or don't look, at the sea
With their walking sticks
they draw signs in the sand
And the sea
erases their calligraphy.
The old women
get up and go away
With their fragile bird feet
While the waves flood in
Travelling
naked in the wind.
by Pablo Neruda
Arctic
Sea Ice
At
Historic Low
MacKenzie
River
Warming