Confessions on the Beach

I sit on the seawall,

alone,

with a few seagulls,

and the smoke of my cigarette.

I wonder—

is this the best way to spend a holiday morning,

or is it the lightest burden that emptiness can bear?

The sun stings my skin.

A moment ago, it was behind the mountain;

now, it hangs over a stretch of the sea.

I have stayed a long while, then.

There is still a flicker of life left in the cigarette.

I cast it with all my might,

but it fell just short of the water.

Here is my cigarette,

my friend—

won’t you read me?

It did not answer.

Perhaps it dared not,

or perhaps it is contemplating

stealing a puff.

It sent a wave crashing,

then another.

It drew near,

but did not quite reach.

The cigarette burned away,

and my secret remained

upon the sand.

Had I thrown it a little further,

would it have known?

Oh, Sea—

I am but a child, stirring up the earth with restless debate,

growing weary in the midst of play,

then retreating—just like your waves,

as I am doing now.

There will be another cigarette,

on a day when the tide runs higher.

And it will know.

It will surely know.

Oran, November 2009